


Witcher's Path

by Fen_Assan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Geralt is Cool, Humor, Monsters, Multi, Rivalry, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, mhm, some smut, tags will be updated as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 69,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5627788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembered the attack on Kaer Morhen: the Salamandra bandits wreaking havoc to the ancient stronghold, stealing the Witchers' secret formulas, killing one of them. Everything before that was a fog, or rather a wall he seemed unable to breach. With his memories gone, too much of himself was missing. There was only one thing he was sure of, only one thing he knew how to do. </p><p>He knew how to be a Witcher.   </p><p>* This takes place during the first Witcher video game timeline, but is not the retelling of the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I'm attempting in The Witcher fandom. I'm having lots of fun writing it, and I hope you'll enjoy reading! Your feedback is greatly appreciated, so please leave a comment and let me know what you think. :)
> 
> A big thanks to HigheverRains for beta'ing! <3

The narrow path had run out. His feet, thankfully kept dry by sturdy boots, briefly disappeared into the mud and reappeared with an effort and a squelching sound. He sighed and muttered a curse. The rain, tapping at the leather armour covering his broad back and chest, and plastering strands of his long white hair to his forehead, made him slightly irritable. He did not dislike rain, but simply wondered why it so often rained in the swamps, where it already was more than sufficiently wet. Water probably attracted more water, he decided. Like trouble always attracted more trouble. Such small conclusions made him feel a bit better. Even if they were only insignificant bits of information that filled tiny portions of the vastly empty shelves of his memory.

He was Geralt of Rivia, he knew that much. A lot of everything else he did not exactly know, but was told by others, who claimed to know him. Before he had died. Yeah, well, he had. And now that he was alive, except for his oldest recollections, he could only trust his most recent ones, those that started at Kaer Morhen. Sloshing through mud, he was picking at the tangled mess of his memories, singling out the earliest one since he had woken up in the Witchers' stronghold, and then trying to move further back in time and remember more. That was usually the point where he failed. Now, as so many times before, he grunted with frustration. He felt like kicking something, but the only thing within reach was mud, so he opted not to. Being even wetter and dirtier would hardly be a major mood changer, especially now that he was about to remain in the swamps for as long as… As long as what? He had not planned his escape into the swamps that far ahead, but he decided he would stay until he figured some things out. 

Deep in thought, he waded into deeper mud and almost lost his boot as his foot was sucked down. He swore, wrenching it out, and swore even more when all the commotion attracted drowners, who were now approaching seemingly from all directions. Contrary to the common belief, whatever had been hanged could indeed drown. The bodies of previously hanged criminals often ended up dumped into the swamps. Geralt knew that they returned as drowners, and these ones were now walking towards him only slightly unsteadily.

"Damn monsters!" he grumbled under his breath. In truth, he welcomed their appearance. They were something to occupy himself with, and that something was exactly the job he had intended to do.

The familiar ring of metal as he unsheathed his silver sword heightened his focus. His muscles knew this routine well and worked like a perfect mechanism as his knees bent, lowering his body, pushing his left leg into the leading position. The sword swooshed, drawing two interconnected circles in the air, waking up the muscles in his arms and back. Geralt assumed a combat stance, both hands gripping the hilt of the sword high up by his right temple, the sharp point aiming slightly downward.

Instead of waiting for the green watery creatures to reach him, the Witcher pirouetted to his left, swiping the sword sideways, leaving two drowners dead with one motion. The success of the first attack gave him the momentum to plunge right into the thick of them, swinging his silver blade in wide arcs meant to thin the monstrous crowd. He kept dancing around, light on his feet and incredibly fast, ever swirling, parrying most of the creatures' blows and landing his own lethal cuts at all angles. The swift technique allowed him to dispose of the slimy mob quickly, with only a couple left standing. He could now use the simple spell of Aard Sign to knock down the stragglers and finish them with one precise, heavy hit. Being a Witcher was ugly and dirty work, but there was room for a creativity of sorts. The last survivors of such attacks served to perfect the execution of beheadings, or sometimes even complicated choreographed routines, which not only added a flare to the Witcher's style, but were surprisingly highly effective.

Geralt found himself performing just such a string of moves, which concluded with a splash of foully smelling slime on his chest as a drowner's head plopped down into the water. Having made sure all the opponents had been vanquished, he jammed his sword into the sludgy ground and set out to pick up valuable alchemical ingredients off the corpses.

He was bent over the remains that promised to yield not only the acid he would use to prepare potions and poisons, but some gold coins the creature must have swallowed, when he felt his medallion vibrate. Alas, it was a little too late. As his hand reached behind his back for the silver sword that was not there, he felt sharp claws tearing at his shoulder. He rolled away to the side automatically, regrettably not the side where his blade was sticking out of the mud. Still on his haunches, he threw his left hand in front of himself with a murmur that sent the drowned dead aflame. It did not incinerate it though; this most vile variety of a drowner was particularly hard to kill. Relying on the power of the magic sign to stun the monster, Geralt jumped on it, and buried his dagger in its neck.

Standing up to his feet, he tried to blow his hair away from his eyes, but it was too wet. His gloves were covered in too many unappealing fluids to do it with his hand, so he let it be, cursing at regular intervals. To be fair, among other things, he cursed his own stupidity for leaving his sword a few paces away. He still had the other sword strapped to his back, but using steel against most monsters was like trying to dice a carrot with a spoon: painful, annoying, and dull.

A few cuts and bruises aside, the fight produced good results. The drowned dead tongues he picked up would be the first contribution to one of his contracts. Those Witcher contracts, which required at least partially clearing the area of the monsters that infested it and collecting certain substances off the creatures, were the official reason he was now in the swamps.

Having gathered up everything of value, Geralt stood by his sword, legs wide, hands resting on the hilt. So far his plan had been to get to the swamps and start killing monsters, until all contracts were fulfilled, and until his head cleared out. He was not sure how long it was going to take, but he had secured quite a few contracts, not intending to return to Vizima too soon. The place was currently too much for him, with the Salamandra bandits, regular bandits, missing Witchers and Witcher secrets, the Scoia'tael and the Order, Triss and Shani, and even Dandelion, all requiring his attention. It was trouble enough dealing with all the mess, and the fact that he still had not reclaimed his memory did not help. He felt like many needed his help, but he needed to help himself first. It meant choosing his battles wisely. For now, he had chosen. His sword unearthed a lump of dirt and grass as he jerked it out. He would need to find a place to sit in peace for a while, have a bite to eat, and clean his weapons before moving on. There were always more monsters to fight.

To be honest, though, in his search for monsters, Geralt might have found one too many. 

Considering a Witcher's job entailed slaying them, it would be fair to assume most witchers had no love of monsters. They categorized the creatures by how difficult or annoying they were to find or fight, and aside from the time-effort-expense calculations, Witchers did not really care what type they were charged with eliminating. Geralt was quite possibly different from other witchers, as he certainly did have personal preferences, among them a particular loathing for echinopsae. He appreciated the challenge of fighting those huge man-eating plants, but the creatures were simply way too annoying.

At the moment such a plant was thrashing about, covering a surprisingly large territory for something rooted in one place in the ground. Every time Geralt moved even a couple of steps away to escape its bites, the carnivorous plant shot its poisonous thorns at him. And he did have to move away now, because in accordance with his theory, trouble never came along. It brought drowners with it, and a few bloedzuigers for good measure. 

He rolled aside and ran a few paces. The echinops thorn in his right arm needed to be removed fast as the pain and the mere presence of that thing protruding from his flesh made handling his sword far more difficult. He grabbed the end and gave it a hard pull, accompanied by a grunt of pain. It came out with a gush of blood, which coloured the sleeve of his once white shirt crimson as he squeezed the arm to stop the bleeding. The moment he took was enough for some creatures to reach him again, and he found a use for the thorn, stabbing a drowner with it. With no time to rest, he rushed back. As he felt a shooting pain of the wound edges slowly closing, he thanked the ruthless training and the mutations his body had undergone for being able to endure this. 

He employed the tactics which, although risky, would rid him of the monsters the fastest. He started to run. The speed he could manage with the mud sucking his feet in with each step was almost laughable but sufficient; and he was running in circles anyway. He only needed the stupid monsters to follow him, and ideally, give him a few moments every once in a while to drop down and trace a glyph on a rare bit of firm land, then double back. The glyph would trap and slash through one monster at a time, giving Geralt a chance to round up the others, set them aflame and pick off the rest with his sword. It was working especially well when the sluggish bloedziegers started closing in. 

"Damn, you're ugly!" was Geralt's admittedly truthful greeting to the blood suckers. Grouping them with other monsters gave him the advantage. When killed, bloedzuigers exploded with clouds of acid, which helped take down other creatures as well. The Witcher just had to be particularly agile and evasive himself. And Geralt actually enjoyed the exercise. All until he got too close to where the thorn-shooting echinops was rooted and it sprang out of the ground again. Only this time there were two of them, and that made Geralt angry.

The battle had proved so draining, he had to hide behind the shield of a magical sphere for a few moments to drink a second restorative potion during the same fight. The effect meant he traded his rapidly depleting health for the blurred vision and the thumping of his heart in his ears that came with a high toxicity level. It was time to go all in. He did not wait for the flames of his incineration attempt to die out before coming slashing at the stalk of one carnivorous plant with full force, rallying himself with an uproarious battle cry.

The sound, coupled with the shriek of the finally wilting echinops attracted more beasts. As he turned to weeding out the second man-eating plant, he became vaguely aware of drowners flopping down dead into the water around him. He thought he had seen an arrow cut through the head of one, but he could not afford to spare them a good look. The next moment though, his suspicion was confirmed, as an arrow flew not a palm's width away from his chest and drilled itself into the plant. He did not step aside, but hacked even stronger with his sword instead, both grateful for and apprehensive of the arrows that were now thumping into his opponent in quick succession. 

"Look out!" The shout came slightly ahead of a hissing ball he recognized as a bomb just in time to dive away from its trajectory. It landed in front of the echinops, but to Geralt's surprise, simply continued hissing. He looked in the direction it came from but could only see a vague outline of a slight hooded figure, an archer nocking an arrow. That arrow hit the middle of the curious bomb, which exploded in a violent burst of flame. Mentally congratulating his unexpected assistant on their perfect aim, the Witcher scrambled to his feet to deliver the final killing blow.

As soon as it was over, he fell to his knees in the mud with exhaustion. The wound in his right arm was seeping blood again, and most of his body was bruised or covered in cuts. He jammed his silver sword, dripping with ichor, into the ground and used the hilt as leverage to get up. The unknown person, who had helped him for unknown reasons, did not show any sign of intending to attack him next, so he let that mystery be for now. He had to deal with a more pressing matter. The toxins running through his blood were making it more and more difficult to control his body. It was not the time or place for meditation, and he had run out of White Honey potions, which could purify his blood. At this point, drinking any other potion could kill him. Only one last solution remaining, he stumbled towards the place of power he remembered feeling nearby. A purifying ritual was the fastest way to get back into fighting condition. He would heal the rest later.

The wolf's head of his medallion tugged at the silver chain around his neck as it vibrated in response to the concentrated magic of the intersection. Geralt slumped down on the ground with a groan, crossing his legs and shutting his eyes to gain enough focus for the ritual of purification. He felt a wave of raw power surge through him, cleansing his body and clearing his mind. When his yellow eyes flashed open a few moments later, their vertical slits dilated, signalling his instantaneous readiness for attack. His right arm flew up behind his back to draw a sword, and the metal ring of the blade leaving its sheath accompanied the jolt to his feet. He stood almost relaxed though, sword in one arm, eyeing the hooded figure apparently staring back at him. He could not actually see the face under the hood, although the slight but shapely body wrapped into well-worn leather was unmistakably feminine. In his state back during the fight, he had not realized the voice he heard belonged to a woman. He could see the bow behind her back and a half-empty quiver strapped to the left side of her waist. Now, she was holding a curved dagger in each hand, both bearing witness to the lives she had claimed. Geralt shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"There were more of them?" The woman shrugged her shoulders.

"Just one or two drowned ones. What sort of magic was it you just did? Don't know what exactly it did to you, but you still look like you're in a pretty bad state." The Witcher half-sighed, half-growled in irritation at having to admit he had indeed come too close to the edge this time. Before responding, he sheathed his sword, took a potion off his belt, gulped it and threw away the vial.

"The Witcher kind. Why did you follow me?" Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, while the woman kept both hands occupied by daggers. She started playing with one now, twisting it between long slender fingers. She had fingerless gloves on, but they revealed enough for Geralt to notice her hands were marked by calluses one could only get by years of experience in either wielding weapons, or else doing some kinds of manual work.

"I'd say because you ran from the site of the battle even though you won, but it was more of a...waddling." She must have owned her calluses to weaponry, Geralt decided, as she made just a tiny little show of her dagger mastery by sending them into a flurry of motion before sliding them into the scabbards suspended from the weapon belt on her hips. "I wanted to see what was going on. You looked like you'd die any minute."

"Mhm." was the only answer he gave for a while. They stood there, waiting for the other to make the first move or say the first word. She snickered.

"And now you seem quite fine. Thanks to the Witcher kind of magic and apparently Witcher kind of drink." He was far from being fine, but he had to admit she was right. He did owe her some gratitude. 

"I guess you expect me to thank you for your...intervention?" To make the conversation more bearable, he took out his sword again, produced a dirty cloth from one of his pockets, and started wiping the blade clean. She kept quiet, her hands resting on her hips in what seemed an expectant pose. It bothered Geralt that he still had not seen her face. "I need to get back there." He gestured towards the spot where the fight had taken place, and she took it as an invitation to join him. Walking through the mud that slurped around his boots, he looked himself over. One sleeve on his shirt was torn, his armour was caked with dirt and blood, and his skin was probably no better. He realized that now when he would welcome the rain to wash off some of the blood and gore, it had stopped.

"Typical," he rasped. The woman kept following a little behind, and not a word more was spoken until they reached the site of the battle. The silence, which he normally enjoyed, started to get on Geralt's nerves. He felt like it was a sign of her subtly and silently judging him. He stopped to face her, only to find she was not where he expected her. She was busy plucking her arrows out of the drowned dead bodies. Which were dead again, now permanently, thanks to her exceptional aim. At the moment she had one foot pressing against the skull of a monster, pulling the arrow out with both hands.

"It might not look like it, but I'm not trying to be arrogant." He started, and she lifted her head, so he knew she was listening. "What you did was stupid. Brave, impressive even. And stupid. This," he used his narrow blade to gesture at the bodies, or rather body parts of several varieties of monsters strewn around him, "is what I do, it's my job. You, on the other hand, could have easily got yourself killed. For what?"

"For a stranger in danger?" she declared with an audible smirk." Or will you tell me you had it all under control?"

"I had most of it under control." That answer apparently had her surprised but pleased enough, as she gave a short throaty laugh.

"An honest one!" With that remark, which could be a praise and a mockery in equal measure, she lifted her arms and pulled back the hood, revealing her face. A bandanna wrapped around the head hid her hair, but left her pointy ears visible. An elf. The fact took care of unravelling the mystery of her superior archery skills. He had thought her a curious character before, and now she became even more so. Geralt had an inkling her elven origin was not the only thing her hood was hiding. The proud, elegant features of her face were quite remarkable, but they were outmatched by her eyes. Those were of incredibly bright colour, almost like the blue meteorite that had gone into making his steel sword. And there was a steely glint to her eyes too. He blinked to stop himself staring, and turned away for a second.

"Thank you. Not many would venture to help a Witcher." His cat-like yellow eyes were fixed back on hers, as if displaying proof of his profession. She held his gaze easily and with a little smile that seemed genuine, replied with a simple "You're welcome." Her eyes were searching the ground again, Geralt noticed, and then she surprised him anew with the next question.

"Can I help myself?" She meant a few coins she found peeking out of a drowner's entrails at her feet. Geralt felt confused, but figured he could share that small bit of the loot with her, since she had helped him more than he wanted to admit aloud. He waved a hand at her, giving his permission with a gesture.

"Just don't get greedy." It sounded rougher than he intended, but he was not about to lose sleep over it. As he circled the patch filled with remains though, his eyes kept darting in her direction. It was not so much to check that she did not pick anything too valuable, but rather because he was curious. A lone female elf in the swamps, too good with weapons to be there by accident, and too civil to be a member of the Scoia'tael. Geralt could not remember if his gut feeling was to be trusted about first impressions, so he delayed forming an opinion of her yet, except for her being masterful with weapons, and beautiful. But those were just plain facts.

The next time he looked up at her, their eyes met for a moment, her brows raising and her mouth twitching slightly in an expression of mild disgust. He followed her gaze to his left hand, in which he was holding a drowned dead tongue he had freshly cut off a corpse. He shrugged and immediately felt stupid for even thinking of justifying what he was doing. He rummaged in his leather pack with one hand and produced a canvas sack. He shoved the tongue into the sack meant for the alchemical ingredients and tied it to the side of his belt.

Geralt's medallion gave a little jolt, making him turn around, sword immediately in hand, in search of the source of the disturbance. He saw no monster anywhere close but kept his guard as he started walking towards the elf. She was poking at some remains with an arrow, when the mass of the body twisted of its own accord, and the monster gave a hiss followed by a screech. The fat, leech-like creature was still alive. The elf's daggers were out in a second to finish it. Geralt was running towards them, but he would not make it in time, so he yelled.

"Don't! It's a bloedzuiger!" He leapt at her just as she cut through the flesh, both daggers sweeping in a downward arc. The Witcher shoved her down, trying to roll them both clear, but he was not fast enough. With the dying yelp of the creature, a viscous green liquid sprayed them both as they hit the ground. The elf gasped at the loss of air on impact and pushed Geralt off her chest to take a breath.

"Why didn't you listen?" he growled angrily. She seemed oblivious to the cause of his anger, which made her angry too.

"To what?! How was its bloody identity going to be of any importance to me at that moment?" He sighed as it dawned on him. She truly did not know.

"Because it wouldn't have poisoned you had you stayed away." He gestured at the green slime on the bare skin of her shoulder and neck. She looked incredulous for a moment, then laughed.

"No-no-no. You're not telling me I'm going to die having saved a mysterious handsome stranger. Or, for an even better tragedy, are you going to die too?"

"I'm not going to die. Witchers are highly resilient. This poison has little effect on me. And I'm glad you find me handsome 'cause you're not going to die either. This poison probably won't kill you, and I can provide a potion to help."

"And? Not because?"

"I'd love to debate semantics with you, but maybe another time. The poison itself isn't lethal."

"A Witcher with the love of semantics. I am intrigued. So I shouldn't be worried then? Why do you look worried? If that," she raised a finger in general direction of his face," is your worried face." His facial muscles rearranged a little, and she had another go at guessing. "Slightly disconcerted?" He made an annoyed grunt, but could not help admitting to himself he was somewhat enjoying the verbal exchange.

"Because I will need to effectively save your life nonetheless." Her single raised brow signalled that she was sceptical but required more information.

"You've seen me fight. I can take care of myself."

"Not when the poison makes you weak, nauseated and feverish in the next few hours." She sat up and Geralt caught her arm before she started trying to brush the poison off her skin. "Don't. You'll just rub it in." She listened, at once this time.

"Oh. So can I have that potion then?"

"I'll have to prepare it. Make some adjustments. You can't drink the potion I already have. My recipes are meant for Witchers, which means it might kill you. Leave you in a worse state than before anyway." He noted that she was looking at him intently, soaking up all the information he gave, but did not show any signs of panic. She truly was brave. Or stupid. He rubbed at his forehead and sighed. "Do you have any good spirits on you?" She raised an eyebrow at him and snickered. She was not stupid.

"I've been told my spirit is unbendable, but I suppose it will not serve in this case?"

"Precisely. I was hoping for a better potion base than the cheap rye vodka I have."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and leaving feedback, everyone! Your support means a great deal. Hope you enjoy this chapter. :) 
> 
> A big thanks to HigheverRains for beta'ing.

"So, Witchers base their potions on alcohol. That explains some things." The female elf walking by Geralt's side looked up as he paused to let her appreciate his gruff expression. She just laughed cheerfully in response. "Oh, I mean no disrespect. On the contrary, I quite understand how that would make one more enthusiastic about consuming those vile potions." The Witcher gave her another stern look. She bit her lip trying not to laugh, and, having composed herself, managed an apology. "I only presume they are foul, and I do apologize for that harsh and not exactly evidence-based assumption."

"Give it time," Geralt grumbled, then chuckled at her blank look. "Not yet evidence-based. Witcher potions can taste pretty bearable, might even have a pleasant whiff… if you can be bothered to pick a herb to add that'd better the taste without ruining the intended effect. Yours is going to be vile, of course." She continued smiling, despite the news.

"Of course," she paused, her eyes down as she was skillfully picking the more solid bits of ground, "considering an antidote is usually produced from the same source as the poison. I can't say I'm looking forward to tasting the potion, but I know what to expect." She shrugged her shoulders as she faced Geralt again, but his gaze lingered on her boots for a while. He was almost envious she was light enough not to get sucked into the mud as much as he did.

"You know your antidotes then." He surveyed the surroundings briefly, then headed in the direction where trees grew denser. It had to be where the path ran. 

"I know something about poisons, and venomous creatures," he heard the woman say as she trailed him. "A good hunter should know their beasts, and I'm better than most." She drew alongside him, and Geralt gave her a quick sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching with amused recognition. Her statement sounded so similar to what he himself often said when he negotiated the prices of his contracts. 

"That curious bomb, you made it yourself then?" he wondered.

"I did." She beamed with pride at his question, and continued speaking, preempting the Witcher from expressing his opinion. "I know, it's a bit fanciful, with having to strike it with an arrow and all, but I do like a flare. Besides, it's actually safer this way, you never end up being too close when it explodes."

"True enough, it was effective. Can't say I have any problem getting out of the way after lighting the fuses on my bombs though. Just the matter of agility." She smirked at his provocation. 

"I've heard a thing or two about Witchers' swiftness, but don't forget you're talking to an elven hunter. I'm up for a challenge should you want to test your abilities. Or learn a few new tricks. I'm even willing to teach you how to make a bomb or a trap as gratitude for saving my life. Once you do save it, that is." The offer was certainly attractive. He liked little more than a challenge and learning new things, especially those that would help him be even more effective in his work. He did not give her an answer though.

"Speaking of which" - they emerged on a winding path so narrow they could no longer walk side by side - "there should be a clearing nearby. I'll need to check my ingredients for what can be used for your potion. Might need to find something else." He strode ahead confidently, without waiting for her response. The response actually never came, and when even his incredible hearing could not pick up any sound from behind him, he turned back to see if she was still there. She was, a few paces back, and she met his annoyed stare.

"I nodded." Of course. She was quiet, all elves were. And all hunters. So she had to be twice as quiet as any of them. Geralt shook his head at his own musings sadly lacking in any deep and meaningful insights, and walked on.

"I'm Geralt, by the way." 

This time he did hear a sound, a barely discernable one, closer to his back. It annoyed him, because he felt like she was only doing him a favour by letting him hear her. The next moment she appeared by his side, walking on the edge of the mud, but almost managing to squeeze onto the path. He reluctantly moved to the side to allow her to walk next to him, both now having one foot hitting the relatively dry land, and the other the saturated ground. It felt stupid to do it, but he had a certain respect for what she was trying to do. It was indeed more polite to look at each other while making introductions.

"Nice meeting you, Geralt." 

He purposefully left off "of Rivia", half expecting her to know who he was, although she showed no signs of recognizing him, or his name. But she could have just been good at acting. He had become so accustomed to most people he met knowing him, or claiming to know him, it was hard to expect otherwise. It drove him crazy. Who was he to trust, when he did not remember any of those people? They did seem to know an awful lot about him, but more than half the events they mentioned were absent from his memory. It was a vulnerability, and it was annoying as fuck. He was sick of repeating "No, I truly don't remember who you are." He often wanted to add that it was not his first concern either, with even the memories of how he had died, or had survived, lost. A couple of times, when he was caught in an especially foul mood, he explained some people that he did not give a horseshit about who they actually were and was thus disinclined to talk to them. 

"I'm Dhu'vaerne." Geralt met the elf's eyes, searching them for any sign that could tell him if she was familiar with him after all. He found nothing besides what looked like friendliness.

"Nice meeting you too. That's an interesting name. "Dhu" is black, but I don't recall "vaerne"? Does it have a particular meaning?" She arched a brow and gave him a lopsided smile.

"So we're back to your love of semantics. It does. It's an altered form of the word." He had actually been searching his mind for the meaning since the moment she had told him her name, and he finally had a half-matching answer.

"Wait, doesn't "invaerne" mean winter?" He knew he was right by her narrowing her eyes and half-smirking at him. His face assumed a smug expression.

"Indeed it does. I am impressed by your knowledge of Elder speech. If not your accent." Geralt shrugged off the barb.

"Witchers tend to be well-educated. An interesting name, why "Black Winter"?" He was really curious, but he realized he might have gone a step too far. That was a personal thing to ask of someone he had only just met, especially as he was not willing to share details of his own life so eagerly, albeit because lots of those were lacking. He cringed slightly. "It's fine if you don't want to say."

"I don't mind. It's a lot more trivial than it sounds actually. There wasn't any cataclysmic event as the name might suggest. I was just born in winter, and had fair skin and really black hair, right from birth. My parents were not too imaginative." She stared at the ground beneath her feet as if looking at the images of distant past. Suddenly she laughed. "Actually, I was told my father wanted to call me a raven, but my..." she hesitated, uncertain whether to disclose any more, or unwilling to revisit other memories linked to that particular one. She continued. "My mother made a scene about it, said 'cerbin' was far from the most beautiful word the Elder Races had ever come up with. Besides, it was often used as a boy’s name. So I ended up being Dhu'vaerne." She still avoided Geralt's gaze, but he noticed there was a note of sadness to her smile. He knew better than to ask more, so he shared something about himself instead. Something that could also be used to check how much she knew about him.

"They call me Gwynbleidd in Elder Speech." Her look betrayed nothing but curiosity this time. A hint of amusement maybe?

"Hm. I can see why they call you White Wolf. In fact, I can see at least three reasons why." Her eyes darted over him from head to toe. "Four." He only admitted to himself that he would like to know what she thought those reasons were, but they were just coming out into the clearing. It was time to get to business. 

"You'll tell me all about that another time. We need to look around, make sure it's relatively safe." He threw his sack full of ingredients on the ground in the middle and started walking around slowly, observing the surroundings. She joined him in doing so, but in her own way. She was climbing up a birch tree with next to no branches anywhere close to the ground.

"Oh, planning on another time already, are you? Some'd call it bold, you know. I say it's optimistic. I like that." She laughed, reaching up for the first branch, quickly swaying on it and making an incredibly swift ascend, her hands and feet finding purchase with ease. Geralt shook his head, her chipper air getting on his nerves. 

"Are you always that difficult when you're dying?" Her head stuck out from between the treetop leaves for a second before she climbed down.

"Can't see any big animals approaching, or monsters. Except for lots of those drowned ones." She gestured in the direction they came from. "You said I wasn't dying. Not yet anyways."

"I might've lied. It's dangerous to trust strangers, Dhu'vaerne." Geralt tried to keep his ground. It was apparently hard to sway this woman though, as she did not lose any confidence.

"That is undeniably true. But who said I trusted strangers?" The Witcher was not certain how to interpret her remark, and it brought back his earlier suspicions. 

"Are you saying you know me?" She gave him an inquisitive look, as if he was not making sense.

"No, I met you for the first time not three hours ago. Are you injured more than you said you are?" Now she was suspicious. She stood in front of him, a much smaller figure with an imposing air about her, fists tucked to hips, chin up and brows crinkled. Geralt only gave her a derisive look, which resembled a snarl probably a bit too closely. She was not fazed. "Or am I supposed to know you? Are you famous or something?" He untied his sack roughly, irritated to no end by his current state of overwhelming uncertainty.

"Something like that," he barked. Exhaling with a slow hiss, he lifted his head. There was no need to take out his frustration on her. It was more than probable they had truly never met before. "You might've never seen me, but it's likely you've heard about me. From Dandelion's ballads?" As he was staring in her eyes unblinkingly, the fingers of his left hand, hidden in the sack, traced the Axii Sign. He was not sure which response he would prefer her to give, that she had indeed heard about the renowned Witcher, or was completely unaware of his existence, but he wanted to hear the truth.

"Have you just tried to hex me?!" She leaned towards him, her eyes narrow slits, as she yelled at him in indignation. "You daft..." She omitted the rest of the description, but Geralt had a pretty clear idea of where she was going with it. She strode away, pacing forcefully, then spun around, took a deep breath and returned in front of him.

"I regret my inability to stroke your famous person's ego is so disappointing to you. My life has not exactly been filled with listening to troubadours while enjoying a sip of a rare vintage from a crystal goblet. So no, the only knowledge I have of you is what you tell me yourself and what I conclude from your behaviour. For now I know you're an honest, capable and manipulative arse." He smirked. Honest and manipulative did not exactly belong together, but it was an unexpectedly accurate description. And her answer, he realized, was the far more satisfying one, her tone notwithstanding. It was a relief to know she was not a shadow from his past he had no recollection of, and that he was a blank slate to her as well.

"You did notice my arse then. Proves this was a good choice of trousers." She rolled her eyes at him slapping his hands on the hardened leather covering his thighs. He agreed hexing an answer out of someone you just met, as they helped you out of a tight spot, was not the nicest thing to do. But he was not about to admit it aloud, not yet anyway. As he started taking some ingredients out to inspect them and choose the ones appropriate for the potion, he continued.

"As for famous people, Dandelion is the one truly well-known, a bard and minstrel most've heard of. I'm told even peasants in remote areas can recite some of his poems. He is as world-famous and as unparalleled as it goes." He said with a note of surprise. He did not remember Dandelion being his friend from before, and upon meeting the man in Vizima he often wondered how it was possible the two of them were close friends, they could not be more different.

"He sounds a lot like one of those self-proclaimed geniuses to me," Dhu'vaerne scoffed in response. She did not look angry anymore. Geralt's eyes crinkled and his lips opened up into an almost actual smile.

"You sure you haven't met him?" She smiled back, squatting across from him. "He is indeed a buffoon, a wastrel and a windbag; and supposedly my best friend."

"You don't seem to be so sure of that." She commented in the form of a statement rather than a question, and he was happy to leave it at that. She was eyeing the ingredients he had taken out of the sack. The organs and tissues and vials full of blood and acid looked far from pleasant, but Dhu'vaerne's expression lacked prominent disgust. As a hunter, she could not be a stranger to skinning and gutting, but she also seemed to start taking her poisoning more seriously. He scanned her face for early signs of its effects, but any sweat from her temples would be soaked up by the bandanna. Her cheeks though looked a tiny fraction flushed in contrast with fair skin. Could be the result of him pissing her off. Could be a symptom. It was worth checking.

"Are you feeling worse already?" She darted a look in his direction, then to the contents of the sack, and back again.

"Maybe. I want to help if you need more ingredients, while I'm still able. So let's get on with it. What do you intend to use?" She was all business now, and Geralt believed it unwise to argue about her assistance. He set aside a few fleshy pieces.

"Drowned dead tongues. Freshly picked, as you remember." He rummaged in the separate smaller bag, its contents cluttering, and fished out a couple of vials. "I have bloedzuiger's blood from before, good enough to use. The last ingredient in the original recipe is the one that needs altering, as you need a weaker agent." He was looking her straight in the eyes as he explained. "I'm going to make a bindweed potion, which is supposed to cure your acid-based poisoning and increase your resistance to acid for the next several hours. I don't know how you'll react to it though. In all probability, it won't be pleasant, but the effects should be much shorter and weaker than those of the poison itself. Are you sure you want to go through with it?" She held his gaze, and after a moment of actual consideration he saw in her eyes, she nodded.

"So what do you need?" It was unnecessary to check his apothecary bag to know he did not have the herb he believed would be the safest.

"Fool's parsley. It does grow in the swamps, in no particular place though. Do you know what it looks like?" She was already up on her feet, nodding again.

"How much of it, and do you need anything else?" He shook his head.

"Nothing more. Just a few bushels. And don't engage bloedzuigers. Or at least finish them with an arrow." She sighed, likely composing herself before leaving.

"Thanks for the professional counsel. I'll be back soon."

It took Geralt little time to sort the ingredients, and he went on to gather the wood for the fire. That was not too easy a task in the swamps, as what was available were mostly the top branches of the dried out dead trees. As soon as he found them, the rest was simple. They snapped easily as he broke them up and arranged on the driest piece of land he could master. Waving his hand over them forming the Igni Sign with his fingers finished the job of making fire.

Dhu'vaerne shot an arrow into the ground two paces away from the fire by way of announcing of her arrival. The only move Geralt made was stretching his legs closer to the fire as he sat on a tree stump, before he met her with a smug expression on his face and his arms crossed over his chest.

"Charming," she snickered, placing a bunch of freshly cut herbs over his still crossed arms as he made no move to take them.

"Likewise," he agreed, finally acknowledging the plants. She waited for his confirmation on the herbs, and when he gave it with an incline of his head, she sat by the fire, crossing her legs. She looked tired now. Geralt noticed the dark circles that had appeared under her eyes in such short a time, and knew he had to get on with the potion fast.

"It'll take me at least half an hour to make the potion. You can rest if you like. I'll keep an eye on you," he suggested without looking at her. He was already cutting the drowned dead tongues with his sharp dagger. He had to wait for an answer.

"Thanks, but I can still function and be useful. Seen some hares around, will try to catch some dinner." The Witcher did not feel like confronting the elven woman, so he only added:

"Don't be late. Once it's done, the sooner you drink it, the better."

She was not late, rather she returned a bit early. He was just finishing boiling the contents, and the concoction would only have to cool down before ready to consume. Dhu'Vaerne looked frustrated, Geralt was not sure why. The hunt must have been successful as she was indeed carrying a hare. The truth of the peril she was in might have dawned on her, or the physical effects of the poison had caught up.

"Done soon?" She asked as she squatted down by the fire, still holding her catch. "Do I have time to skin it?" He looked from the hare to the liquid he was stirring.

"Better leave it for now." In truth, he was certain she would be done with the job in no time, but he figured she would be better off just resting. He was wrong, of course, thinking she would take that opportunity. In just a moment, she darted to her feet, her bow practically materialising in her hands, an arrow already nocked as she started moving to her left. Geralt's medallion was still, so it had to be a person or an animal. He would hear a person approaching, so it had to be another hunting opportunity. And indeed it was.

Dhu'Vaerne covered the clearing where they were camping soundlessly, following her target that Geralt could not see. Her fingers grasped the drawn string tightly, her hand high up, hiding her pointed ear from sight. She froze just between the shaggy-looking trees boasting only a few branches and next to no leaves. Despite that, her presence was somehow not obvious at all. She remained motionless for almost longer than was necessary, so it came as a surprise when she finally released the arrow with a swooshing sound that ended in thunk. Having briefly disappeared from sight, she emerged carrying another hare by the ears. She set it atop the first one by the fire, then unclasped and put aside her quiver and bow with exceptional care.

"Keep an eye on these if I get knocked out, will you? They’re the most precious of the whole dozen of my possessions." She gestured towards the bow and arrows and smiled sadly and mockingly at the same time. Geralt's 'Of course' was accompanied by genuine respect towards a good weapon and understanding of a person's attachment to it.The longbow was almost as tall as the elf herself, the grip made of worn-out leather stripes wrapped around the wood. It was probably not very valuable, lacking in rich details, the only decoration being the carvings flowing along the wooden surface, of elven design. The quality seemed high though.

"Yew tree?" Geralt asked, lifting the pot with the potion off the fire and setting it on the ground, still stirring to help it cool down faster. The woman's eyes flickered as she faced him, and the corners of your mouth twitched with a smile.

"Yes." Geralt never used the bow and arrows himself, though he was perfectly able to. He simply found that always having to pick up and make new arrows was impractical in his line of work. It did not mean he could not appreciate a fine weapon.

"It looks like it's served you well. And probably will for a long time still." Dhu'Vaerne gave him an appreciative smile and ran her nimble fingers lovingly along the length of the bow.

"Indeed, it's been with me for a very long time. Its sentimental value is much higher than fiscal." The Witcher thought as much. He finally stood up from a long time crouching or sitting on the tree stump and stretched his legs. The elf was not looking at him when he turned hearing her speak.

"I missed two other hares before, when I was out hunting." She was staring into the fire unblinkingly, recounting the trivial event, which for her apparently bore high significance. She looked up at Geralt. "I even had a clear shot, and still missed, several times. I haven't missed in...ages." Considering the elves' longevity, it might well have been the actual truth of it.

"Look, it's the poison messing with your reflexes, don't worry about it. You'll be fine. Probably." Her eyebrows flew up at the last sentence, but instead of anger or frustration, her face lit up with amusement.

"You do know how to reassure, Geralt." He spread his arms and shrugged his shoulders as if in awe of his own skill for consoling others, and gestured for her to move closer to the fire. As Dhu'Vaerne settled at the indicated spot, her daggers remained in their scabbards.

Geralt poured the finally fully prepared potion into a vial, took some bandages from his pack, and crouched down next the woman. He dabbed the bandages with a bit of the greenish liquid and lightly padded the elf's skin touched by the poison. She flinched at first contact, but remained silent and composed throughout the rest of the procedure.

"At least you're true to your word, witcher. This does smell foul," she crinkled her nose as the vial passed right by her face. Geralt only smirked.

"You have to drink it up. I believe I weakened the dose enough for it not to do you more harm than good, but I couldn't compromise on the quantity." She nodded resolutely and looked him in the eyes.

"Thank you."

She took the vial from his hand and gulped it down in one go. By the end, the sounds her throat was making led Geralt to believe she would just throw it all back up. She did shiver violently with the last swallow, dropping the vial and covering her mouth with both hands, but kept it all inside. He told her to lie down and gave her his apothecary bag full of herbs to place under her head for relative softness.

She was holding out quite well at the beginning, only her skin paling considerably and breath becoming shallower. Geralt watched her as he worked on gutting the rabbits and putting them to roast. But soon, as he was turning the future dinner over the fire, he heard her moan with pain for the first time. The contortions had started. Her body twisted, limbs thrashing, but thankfully, the seizure did not last long. All of a sudden, she shot up into the sitting position, gasped, wheezed, and with some undefinable grain of control turned to her left and started crawling away from the fire. Geralt jumped towards her and grabbed her by the shoulder.

"What are you doing? You have to lie still, it'll pass!" She growled at him barely audibly, moved a couple of paces further, and retched. Geralt stood over her incredulous, not sure what he was seeing: if she had just died there, or, in her poor condition, had actually managed not to soil the place where she rested. Turned out the second was correct, even though she collapsed, and Geralt had to carry her back to the fire. She was hardly a burden though.

Her resilience was truly impressive, and Geralt could not help but feel respect for her strength and ability to control her body to such extent. Left unattended with all the drama going on, the hares had almost burnt on one side, and Geralt swore, turning them quickly. He swore more as he burnt his fingers. He thought he heard a chuckle behind his back, and it was just that. Dhu'Vaerne was looking at him with half-opened eyes and a weak smirk.

"You can't be trusted with dinner," she rasped. He was shaking his hand airing the burn, although he knew perfectly well it was going to do nothing to help it. He smirked back at the elf.

"The potion seems to have worked. It'll take time for you to recover, so best try to sleep. No dinner for you today, considering you insulted the cook." Remembering just then he went back to turning the meat; it was almost done now. He knew she would not be able to stomach any food in the next few hours, but he planned to leave her some roast meat for the morning.

She found it hard to speak, but she was obviously the kind of person who did not stop in face of difficulty. She repositioned herself, putting a hand under her head, and half-whispered.

"I'd ask you to remove the smell of the food if it were possible. But do me another favour. Tell me about that great monster you've met recently." Geralt was puzzled. The question did not make much sense to him, and he wondered if she was delirious. 

"What do you mean, Dhu'Vaerne?" She gave him an exasperated look and, with a visible effort, lifted a finger in the direction of his face.

"The scar across your face. Looks like it almost cost you an eye." Ah. He understood now. The deep curve of the scar that ran from his forehead to his left cheek was indeed a prominent and curious feature. His hand lifted automatically to trace the scar tissue, but he lowered it half way up.

"It's not recent." She raised a single brow, unable to speak more of her dissatisfaction with his short answer. "Look, I'm not Dandelion. I'm not good at telling stories." He sounded annoyed, but in truth, it felt good to think about that. Because that was something he remembered.

"All the better. I bet I'd prefer your version anyway. Rhymes in Common Speech are detestable." She managed to say it almost clearly, but caught her breath in gasps afterwards. Geralt conceded, after sighing loudly.

"Alright. It's an old scar. Still looks like this 'cause wounds from magical monsters often don't heal properly. Some of the best healers I know have tried, and that's the best they could do. It was a bruxa, an unusual one. Went for my face with her claw, I was lucky my eye wasn't caught, but it was close. I saw her do it too. Saw the claw approaching, couldn't squeeze my eyes shut if I tried. Couldn't close them when the blood started gushing out either. You see, Witchers are trained to fight even when blinded, but I had to see it die." He embraced the memories, even if disturbing ones, and relived that fight in a few short moments. His gaze was transfixed on the fire for a while as the completness of the memory overwhelmed him. He hacked a large piece of hare from the stick it had been roasting on and sank his teeth into it.

"Oh, and I won in the end." He stopped chewing and added. In silence, when he turned to check if Dhu'Vaene was still awake, he saw her lying on her side, both hands under her head, and looking at him with a little smile. 

"A great story. Loved it." She closed her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to develop, so a slightly longer chapter this time. :) Thank you all for reading and for your feedback!
> 
> A big thanks to HigheverRains for beta'ing.

Witchers slept, just like humans, non-humans, animals, and even some monsters did; but their need for it was not as great. Geralt always preferred meditation to sleep. Well, that "always" excluded the times when he was too inebriated. Although his mind was well-trained in years of practice, intoxication hindered his ability to sustain concentration for long periods of time. And that was the key to the build-up of inner energy, life force, and focus that Witchers gained through meditation. The Witcher schools had developed other techniques, of course, which allowed for a quick revitalisation in times of need, but they were like tricking an empty stomach into feeling full by drinking water - not that effective, and only worked for a short time.

Geralt had been meditating for a few hours now, having found no new symptoms manifesting in Dhu'vaerne as she slept peacefully enough. His prediction was that she should be back to normal in the morning.

And morning it seemed to be. Geralt slowly came back from the altered state of consciousness resulting from his meditation, but he had yet to open his eyes. He could sense it had dawned, most likely not long ago. With his Witcher senses still in sharp focus, he heard and felt the world around him full to bursting. There were sounds, so many it could be overwhelming if he allowed them to. He could hear wolves snarling at each other in the distance, drowners screeching, crows cawing over a corpse, almost fresh, wind rustling the dried leaves on scant trees, muddy water bubbling as a bloedzuiger emerged from it. None of those was close enough to hasten his waking.

He took a deep breath, relaxed his stiff posture by stretching his limbs and cracking his neck to both sides, allowing his mind to resurface, and finally allowed his eyes to open. The slits of his pupils narrowed as he took in the surroundings. The only indication that it was a place where someone had camped was the fire still struggling against the dampness. The clearing was empty. There was no sign of the elven woman. Geralt reasoned it meant she was fine, as he would have heard any sounds of distress in his meditation. He was uncertain how he felt about her being gone. She did not owe him anything, she had already thanked him before she fell asleep. He had thanked her for her assistance as well, so they were even.

He checked his belongings. Everything was in place. At least she was decent enough not to rob him. He noticed she had only taken the roast hare meat, and felt slightly disappointed, even though completely without reason: he had left it for her anyway. It just meant he had to be satisfied with a crust of bread and some hard cheese he had left for breakfast. He stood up, picked the same stick he had used for roasting the night before and impaled the bread on it to warm it up over the fire.

"Mind a bird with that bread?" He had not heard her coming, again. That felt like a challenge, and he smirked to himself, pleased with the air of competition. He turned to see Dhu'vaerne standing a few paces away, some twigs in one hand, and a bird in the other. She lifted the catch as if to demonstrate the goods she was offering. It was some sort of a grouse, not much to go around, but he was not going to refuse some meat. "Care to pluck the feathers?" Judging from her reaction, she clearly did not expect him to nod in agreement to do that hardly pleasant job.

"I have my methods," Geralt smirked and took the bird from Dhu'vaerne. He held it by the legs at arm's length, arranged the fingers of his left hand in the Igni Sign and let out a controlled stream of fire, turning the fowl around. The scorched feathers left only ashes fluttering about. And the stench.

"Well that was effective. Not very pleasing to smell, and slightly wasteful, but kind of fun, I admit." Some ash had found its way into Geralt's eye, and he had to rub it with his knuckle. He was about to ask Dhu'vaerne how that was wasteful, but swallowed his question as he saw her take off her bow.

"Uh, sorry, didn't think about you needing feathers for the fletching." She crouched to tend to the fire, adding the dry firewood she had brought, and shrugged her shoulders.

"I'll survive. It's just my habit, or probably belief would be more accurate, that no resources should be wasted. If you take something from nature, use it. I don't try to impose my opinion on anyone though, so it's fine." Geralt skewered the grouse and handed it back to Dhu'vaerne, who set it over the fire, and faced the Witcher with a cheeky smile.

"You did deprive me of some pretty-looking arrows though. One of the reasons I'd picked that grouse, the black-and-white spotted feathers. So I'm getting the best bit of the bird as compensation." Geralt smirked in response. It was her who had caught it, it was more than fair she got the first pick.

"What were the other reasons?" She grinned before replying.

"It's one of the quickest and most elusive birds around here. Needed to check my reflexes." She looked both quite well and satisfied, but Geralt asked her anyway.

"So how are you feeling?"

"The hunt was good, had it with the first shot." The Witcher wanted to say it was not the answer to his question, but, after a moment's thought, he realised it probably was.

"Good. Glad you're better. Did you test your acid resistance once you were satisfied with your aim?" Geralt knew very little of Dhu'vaerne; she definitely seemed daring and adventurous, but he wondered if she was reckless as well.

"No. The opportunity did not present itself, and I did not seek it out. I did chance upon an echinops, but only bombed it from afar. Did not kill it, sadly, but can show you the spot later if you like. It probably won't have fully recovered, and together we can finish it up quickly." There were several things in her statement that did not sit right with Geralt, but one was outright disconcerting.

"What now?" She looked up and saw him stand towering above her, legs wide, arms crossed, and eyes narrowed.

"You keep calling drowners "drowned ones", you claim to have no knowledge of bloedzuigers, but you know echinops, though I actually never mentioned the name? You must admit, your knowledge of monsters is suspiciously select." She sighed.

"I see. It is indeed suspicious if you put it like that, but in reality it couldn't be simpler. I'm not from here." Geralt snickered.

"That much is clear, but it explains nothing. Where are you from?" She hesitated before answering, and it got on his nerves, so he started pacing. Why was he even having this conversation?

"The south." Geralt gave her a vile look full of derision, and she continued, crinkling her nose and baring her teeth for a moment. "I'm not a Nilfgaardian spy, if that's what you're thinking. Though that's exactly what a spy would say of course," she scoffed. "I'm not from that far south." Geralt stopped in front of her, hanging above again, as she had not faltered from preparing the food and was still squatting.

"You know what? I get it. I'm a stranger, and you're actually wise to be cautious, but I saved you. In my book, that deserves a bit of information." She looked at him and then turned away. She prodded the bird, and, satisfied with it apparently being done, took the skewer off the fire and set it aside. She stood to her full height now and faced him again, her expression and her gestures calm.

"I remember helping you out, too." The moment her mouth opened, Geralt knew she would remind him of it, and cursed to himself.

"So what do you want from me?" The Witcher snapped, but she stood her ground and remained calm, as if he had been polite and pleasant.

"For you to answer my questions if I answer yours. Because trust, Geralt, is like a house." He blinked so slowly it was actually briefly closing his eyes to collect himself. He was not in the mood for metaphors.

"As in you need a ploughing key to open it?" He asked sarcastically, but she just gave him a look, which, without any words, managed to convey her meaning: "Oh come on, we both know a key is far from a necessary requisite to enter a house." But she said no such thing.

"As in it takes time to build." Geralt completely agreed with that, but his opinion was inconvenient in this argument, so he found something to contradict with.

"Unless you're a sorcerer." To his surprise, she smiled in response.

"True enough. Never trust a sorcerer." She pointed at the roasted grouse and his bread, which had already dried up anew. "Let's eat and talk. If you accept my proposition." He uncrossed his arms, crossed them again, and finally nodded, looking at her from below his brow.

"Mhm."

Dhu'vaerne was the one to break up the bird into pieces. When she handed Geralt the white meat off the breast, he arched a brow suspiciously.

"I thought you planned on claiming the best part." Despite those words leaving his mouth, his hand actually accepted the food and he sank his teeth into it immediately. She smirked.

"Huh. You have no idea what you're talking about," she stated, waving a bird's leg before biting into it. "The juiciest meat is on the bone." It was definitely not the first time Geralt had seen an elf eating, but he still found himself captivated by their small, perfectly even teeth. Despite a popular - and wrong - belief, the absence of canine teeth did not prevent them from including meat in their diet. Elves definitely did not live on berries and spring water alone.

"I prefer less fuss," Geralt shrugged, and the woman nodded. Their different preferences made the situation beneficial for both. "So?" He started, still chewing. "Going back to monsters?" She did not attempt to avoid or delay the answer this time.

"Where I'm from, we had few, it used to be a quiet place really. But then some things happened, some people died. And I learnt that echinops grow in places where crimes have been committed." The Witcher tore at the bread crust and inclined his head. There was a story behind what she had said, but he was under no illusion he would hear all of it there and then.

"But no swamps, so no bloedzuigers?" She nodded in confirmation.

"I come from Verden, a minor force in the Northern Kingdoms," she glanced at him and added with a tiny bit of frustration, "as you know, of course."

"Must have seen enough drowners then, living by the Yaruga." Geralt's attempt to check her knowledge of the small kingdom's geography was not subtle, but he figured he would ask what he wanted to know, since he had agreed to respond to her questions in turn. She smiled, probably fully aware of the test.

"Not really. I lived away from the river, and the Northern Sea, on the opposite side from the three strongholds on the border with Cintra." That much information was common knowledge, and also just about everything an inhabitant of Temeria would actually know about the Kingdom of Verden. Dhu'vaerne, however, did not ask for another prompt to continue. "I lived away from what you'd call civilisation, in Grend, a village small and insignificant enough to be missing from most maps of Verden I've seen. It's right on the border with the Forest."

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand having finished his meal, Geralt concluded she was telling either the truth or a very well-researched and prepared story. Only the locals of those parts of the Northern Kingdoms would familiarly refer to the neighbouring Kingdom of Brokilon as "The Forest." Few outsiders ever visited Brokilon, which was indeed a huge forest inhabited by dryads. Those beautiful female guardians loved everything about nature, and took good care of their kingdom, in which humans, who tended to bring destruction wherever they went, were not welcome. Their dislike, however, did not include elves; the two races had a lot in common after all. Geralt knew dryads could even rival elves at archery, and he wondered if Dhu'vaerne's skills were the testatment to the both races' legacy. The Witcher decided he was inclined to believe the woman about her origin, but he had more questions he wanted answered.

"You're quite away from home," he started, and she spoke before he could ask further.

"Yes, and no. Depends on how you define "home". The house's probably still there. The forest definitely is. Have you ever been in those parts, Geralt?" He stood up from the tree stump he was sitting on, kicked the soft dirt with the toe of his boot, and shrugged his shoulders, simultaneously crossing his arms.

"It's likely I have." Her expression of calm and slight sadness turned to that of offense, her eyes flashing with anger, as if she interpreted his answer and his posture as him being scornful. She stood up as well and swung her arm, throwing the bone she had picked clean, away into the meager undergrowth. The anger in her intensely blue eyes had somewhat subsided when she faced him.

"Does that mean you do not wish to answer my question, or, too busy and well-travelled men that Witchers are, you simply do not care to remember all the places you've been?" Geralt realized she had made an effort not to put any threat or hostility into the question; she was holding it back until she heard his answer, one of those at least. At that moment he found he would not conceal the truth.

"It's neither. I think I most probably have been in Verden and Brokilon both, but can't be sure. I've lost my memory." He saw sympathy flicker across her eyes and disappear just as quickly.

"I'm sorry. Sometimes memories are all one has left, of home, or of people. How...extensive is the loss?" The Witcher could not know how sincere she was, but her reaction felt genuine. She seemed to truly feel compassion and kindness, and wanted to understand, rather than immediately plot how to use his vulnerability to her advantage. It could have been just his wishful thinking, but she just might be someone who did not need anything of him. He sat back down on the stump, lowered his head and sank his fingers into his white hair, rubbing at the skull. Finally, he rested one elbow on his knee, and looked back at Dhu'vaerne, who had been watching him silently and patiently.

"I don't know exactly, but it goes a few years back for sure. I only remember things that happened a long time ago with certainty." She cringed.

"I do hope you count "a few years" by dh'oine measure. By elven, a few years could mean a whole human's life." He gave her a wry smile.

"Witchers live longer than humans, so I'm, you could say, optimistic." Her smile was warm and friendly, and it did not disappear with his next question. "What are you doing in the swamps of Temeria?"

"Searching."

"For someone or something?"

"Both actually. For information and for people. A person, in fact. And you? Anything else besides monster-killing?" She started packing up the camp, that is she swung her small pack on her back together with her bow, and went to extinguish the fire. Without commenting on that, he nodded and took her lead, gathering his things as well.

"Looking to find lots of work around here, and staying away from Vizima for a while. Too many people there who..." As both stood ready to go, their gazes met, and Dhu'vaerne prompted:

"Who want something from you?" She was quite good at this, Geralt thought, though not sure what "this" was - judging character, guessing from context, grasping the main idea quickly, all of those? He nodded.

"Yes, and who say I'm supposed to remember them." One corner of her mouth twitched as she tipped her head with understanding.

"So where are you heading? I mean I plan to make good on my promise to teach you how to make some of my handiwork. Can do that now or meet later, if you like." That was the moment when Geralt realized the brief information about himself he had shared with this elven woman was probably the most sincere conversation he had had in a while. Unlike the others, it did not leave the ugly aftertaste of bile in his mouth in its wake. That was probably why the way this short acquaintance was ending seemed too abrupt; he felt he would not be against talking to Dhu'vaerne some more. She did look ready to take off wherever it was she was going though.

"You plan on staying in the swamps?" The Witcher crossed his arms in an attempt to add nonchalance to his pose. She smiled, nodding.

"Yes, for a while at least." He shifted his weight and tilted his head back disapprovingly.

"I won't tell you it's dangerous here, but you should know there are more monsters here that you're unfamiliar with. Is it worth the risk staying?" Her response sounded confident, like that was a matter she had given some consideration and had decided in its favour despite the difficulties.

"This is where I need to be now. But I'd definitely appreciate you teaching me about the swamp kind of monsters." Her face lit with a big smile. "This would in fact be exchanging professional secrets. We do share a trade in a way, just our prey is different." Geralt raised a single brow and nodded his head to the side a bit, as if having a silent debate with himself and finally agreeing. "I'll be honest, I did not expect an invitation to tag along from you though." He wanted to say he did not expect it from himself either, or rather he was not sure that had actually been an invitation. In the end he said nothing about it at all.

"Are we going anywhere in particular?" Dhu'vaerne inquired as she started walking away from the clearing and out onto the path, clearly eager to be on the move. Geralt thought for a moment. He had been in these swamps before, though relatively briefly, but he knew where they could head.

"Lumberjacks' Glade. The ferryman told me their chief has some work for a Witcher."

"Huh, that's convenient." She chortled a laugh, which left Geralt incredulous.

"Why?"

"Come on, tell you on the way."

***

"I didn't take you for one of the Scoia'tael," the Witcher yelled, dodging a blow from the huge fist of a monster. He stepped ahead with his back leg, swiped the other leg behind it, switching his angle, and brought his silver blade in an upward arc, slicing the creature into two unequal parts.

"You were correct," Dhu'vaerne laughed, letting three arrows loose in quick succession, "but I wonder why?" Two arrows found their aim in the thick heads of the alghouls they were fighting, - "If I met myself here I'd definitely think I was with the non-human guerrilla." - the last one pinned a leg of the alghoul closest to Geralt to the ground. He stepped aside from it, rotated his hips, and put his weight into the cut as the tip of his sword drove into the algoul's middle.

"You never called me a "dh'oine" for one". A new group of ghouls closing in were met by the elf's bomb, which spun at their feet. Its sizzling fuse grasped their attention, and they stared at it dumbly for a moment. The explosion took care of most of them, and the Witcher lunged to finish the two stragglers, only to let his arms fall limply at the interrupted swing of his sword. The swoosh he heard was the sound of Dhu'vaerne's arrows outpacing him. He turned to face her, flicking his wrist to let the drops of blood and gore fall from his blade to the ground.

"Why would I call a vatt'ghern a dh'oine?" She laughed, approaching him, picking up her spent arrows on the way. The fight was over. Geralt smirked and tipped the scabbard on his back to sheath the silver sword with ease.

"You see, none of the Scoia'tael I've met so far have shown the awareness of the difference, or the finesse to acknowledge it. Besides, you severely lack in hatred for one of them. Too fine manners, too." She appeared to want to interject something, but Geralt asked on regardless. "So why are you looking for Yaevinn then?"

She wiped the arrows clean and stowed them precisely in the quiver, nodding towards the alghouls' bodies, as if checking if he needed any ingredients off of them. He showed her by hacking at the bone. She shuddered briefly, but took out her daggers and got to work before she answered.

"You probably know the dryads in Brokilon support the Scoia'tael, give them shelter, heal their wounded. I've not only heard a lot about the guerrilla, but met some of them too. Some were, just as you said, overflowing with hate for humans. Others only wanted better lives for elves, for us to survive and to live, to keep our dignity. Some spoke about Yaevinn as a great commander, not only a skilled warrior and a worthy leader, but a decent person. When I left home, it was not to join them straight away, but to find out more about them, and then decide. I think they could do a lot of good, but I won't become a terrorist. I want to meet Yaevinn and see what he's like for myself. I want to know his goals and ideals, and see if they correspond with any of mine."

"I can respect that," Geralt agreed. "And you heard he's in the swamps?" She nodded.

"I suspect there's a camp here somewhere. The lumberjacks might know more." The Witcher tied his ingredients sack to his belt and set out to follow the elf on the path.

"We're almost there."

The Lumberjacks' Glade first announced itself with the sounds of trees being cut down: the rhythmical thwack-thwock of the axes, and the occasional groaning, followed up by the rustle and eventual thump of a felled tree.

When the two emerged onto the more solid ground of the glade, Dhu'vaerne gasped. She left Geralt's side without a word and ran towards a group of tree stumps. Their surface was still rough and moist with the sap, the smell of freshly cut wood permeating the air. The elf ran her fingers along the edge of the cut, her face contorted with emotion, then started looking around - making Geralt think of a wounded animal - and headed towards the still standing trees in the distance. The Witcher simply followed. She stopped among the growing trees, most with the woodcutters' marks visible on their bark.

"So many," Dhu'vaerne said in such a low voice, it was almost a whisper. "I didn't expect there was a real forest here in these swamps at all," she grimaced. "Not for long, looks like." Geralt could not say he felt the same deep connection to nature that elves possessed, but his was definitely stronger than that of humans. He could understand the woman's distress at seeing so much destruction. He felt sorry for it, because, even though he was familiar with the advantages of production and trade, his experience also told him a lot of the wood would simply go to waste.

"That's how logging is, you know," he offered by way of consolation. "At least people will use what's made of it. Like your bow." She gave him an appreciative smile, coupled with a sceptical look.

"You could make enough bows for an army. Good ones, too - these are truly ancient yews. But I doubt they're going to make bows from all this wood." Her fingers lingered on the trunk as she looked up into the canopy. Geralt wondered if there was a sort of communication going on between the elf and the tree, but opted for not enquiring about it just now.

"Let's find out." He focused his Witcher senses; pinpointing the source of an authoritative voice shouting out commands to woodcutters only took a moment.

As they approached, the identity of the lumberjacks' leader took Geralt by surprise. Such crude attitude to the logging site, without a care for preserving even a part of the forest, had to belong to humans. And a lot of the woodcutters he now saw were human indeed, but there were dwarves among them too, with a dwarf leading them all.

There was no mistaking the chief: the stocky dwarf had a chainmail shirt on, richly decorated by his huge long ginger beard tucked under his belt next to an axe, a tall iron helm with a sharp point on top, which Geralt found utterly ridiculous, and apparently an iron fist, judging by how he was bossing his workers about.

"Are you responsible for the logging?" Geralt started after a nod of greeting. The dwarf tucked his fists onto his hips and rounded his chest - a familiar posture assumed to show he was not intimidated by someone so much taller than himself.

"No, we're scaring woodpeckers," he bristled.

"Charming fella," Geralt muttered, and continued more loudly. "I guess what I meant is, are you Yaren Bolt?" The dwarf nodded proudly.

"And who're you?" He looked from Geralt to Dhu'vaerne, who had just stepped next to him.

"I'm Geralt, a Witcher. And this is...my companion," he eyed the elf sideways, silently asking her permission to introduce her. She looked at him with a brief frown Geralt was not certain how to interpret. It could be about him referring to her as "his companion", or interfering when she could take care of herself. Anyway, she spared him the trouble of making introductions.

"I'm Dhu'vaerne. What are you logging these trees for? You must know this place is what remains of a primeval forest - these yews have been here for hundreds of years, some even thousands." Her voice rang and her eyes turned dark blue as she was visibly trying to stay her ire and remain civil. The same cold not be said about Yaren though.

"Calm yer tits, woman." Her lips thinned, and her knuckles went white from gripping the hilts of her daggers.

"Hey! That's not the way to speak to a lady!" Geralt crossed his arms and towered over the dwarf, but the latter remained unfazed.

"This lady's just attacked me for doing my job!" The Witcher heard Dhu'vaerne let out a slow breath. She crossed her arms too then, removing her hands from the daggers on her hips.

"You are right, I am sorry for that." Geralt stared at her incredulous as instead of lashing out, she inclined her head politely at the lead lumberjack. Such development pleased the dwarf.

"Aye, my apologies too. Of course I know the forest's old, that's why this wood is so sought after. Logging's hard work, and this earns our living, and that of our families."

"Are you working for anyone?" Geralt enquired. Yaren shook his head.

"We're independent, but we get orders from big traders in Vizima. This wood's apparently the best for wainscoting." The dwarf gestured towards the pile of logs with certain pride. Dhu'vaerne nodded with understanding.

"What even is wainscoting?" Geralt asked, facing the elf instead of the dwarf, nonplussed at her being seemingly familiar with the subject, when he himself had hardly ever heard the word.

"Wood panelling on the walls, especially stone ones, for warmth or decoration." She looked like it was the most natural thing for a person to know, but Geralt was sure it was not. He had an urge to ask where she had learnt about it, but stopped himself. There would be a better time for that. The time when there would be no dwarf standing next to them, listening, and tapping his boot impatiently. The man turned his attention to the lumberjack.

"I was told you have Witcher work for me."

"If you're willing to take risks, yes. Beggatrick flowers should be blooming in the swamps. If you can collect enough, we can split the profit when you sell them." This was just about the most ridiculous offer Geralt had ever heard. It definitely was from the currently available arsenal of his memory. He could leave, or laugh, or threaten the dwarf to not test his patience. He felt curious, however, and only snickered in response.

"Flower picking is not exactly a witcherly kind of work."

"If herb collecting sounds more manly, you're welcome to use that in the contract." Yaren stuck his chin out at him. "The swamps are full of monsters, it won't be easy." Geralt shifted his weight from one leg to the other and cracked his neck to one side. It was starting to hurt from looking down for so long.

"OK. Let's say I do that, why would I split the money with you, if I'm to do all the legwork?" The dwarf cackled in response, as if he had been waiting for precisely that question.

"You don't know what the flower looks like, or where to find it, and more importantly, whom to sell it to. See, I have the monopoly on herb trade around here."

"Hmm." This new information did not make Geralt like the woodcutter more at all. "Still don't know if it's worth it. Sounds like a lot of fuss just for some flowers I'd get meager few coins for." Dhu'vaerne joined the conversation, having given a polite cough first.

"Beggatrick plant is very valuable, or what you can make from it is. I know something about it. Looks like red orchids." Yaren narrowed his eyes at the woman, annoyed with someone showing knowledge he had thought his own advantage. He smacked his lips and spread his arms in the end.

"Yes, the lass's right. You see, the task's getting easier for you by the minute. When you've gathered 10 bushels, sell them to the ferryman, and bring half the money to me." Geralt considered the dwarf for another moment, and then finally extended his right hand to shake on their agreement. The contract giver was content, a small smile showing somewhere between his bushy moustache and beard.

"I'll be glad to see the money soon, but there's no rush. The nights are too dangerous here, you can stay at our camp, if you like, and start off tomorrow."

"Um," the Witcher did not think he wanted lots of company, but it was true they needed a safer place for the night. He looked at Dhu'vaerne, raising his brow inquisitively.

"Of course," she said to him, and, turning to Yaren, "thank you."

***

There were a couple of bonfires already burning in the camp, and as darkness fell more of them sprang to life as more workers returned from their shift. Geralt and Dhu'vaerne settled at the edge of the camp, starting a fire of their own. The elf's brief excursion into what remained of the forest returned some bird eggs, which made their dinner, together with some hard cheese Geralt still had in his pack. They were eating when one of the lumberjacks approached them wearily.

"Greetings, master Witcher, milady. I come to ask for your help." Geralt wiped the egg yolk from his mouth and invited the man to sit with them, offering him a piece of cheese. The human shook his head almost violently.

"No-no, thank you, it's not that, we have enough food. Yaren takes good care of us here. Without him, not all would make it back home, with coin in our pockets and head on our shoulders." The man cleared his throat, as if loath to continue with his request.

"How can I help?" Geralt's encouragement was all the woodcutter needed.

"You see, me kids are sick. Me wife's alone with with six of them; three little 'uns being sick, she just can't take care of all." The Witcher stiffened at the thought that he might have to refuse the man. He did want to help, but almost anyone he could imagine would be better than himself at nursing sick kids.

"Uhhh, I don't know if I can help with that..." Dhu'vaerne, who was sitting cross-legged next to him, whispered:

"Let him finish?" He nodded.

"I want to go back to them, help the missus care for the little 'uns. But if I leave, I won't make no money while I'm gone. I can't have that, with me wife and the kiddies." Geralt made a move to speak, but the lumberjack threw up his hands, his heavily calloused and browned with work palms open towards Geralt. "I'm not askin for no donation, master Witcher. I'm an honest worker, and it's honest trade I'm offerin. I have some things to sell, give you a good price, too." Before the Witcher could react, the man produced a bindle from behind his back and quickly unwrapped the cloth to reveal a bottle, likely of some slightly better alcohol than the unavoidable in those parts rye vodka, a piece of red meteorite, and a silver ring.

"Sodden mead this is," he explained, pointing at the bottle. "200 orens's all I'm askin. You're a man of the world, master Witcher, you know you can sell these for much more. But two hundred'd keep me family fed while I'm outta work." Geralt knew it was a very low price indeed for the man's possessions. He reached for his coin purse, and counted 200 orens. Then he picked up the ring and handed it to the lumberjack together with the coins.

"Keep it. Probably means something for you. You take good care of your family." The man's mouth gaped open for a moment, but he collected himself, just as his eyes started tearing up. He sniffed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and stood up hurriedly.

"I'll be right back." Indeed, he returned almost immediately with the unlikely combination of two more bottles and a piece of old parchment in his hands. He handed the parchment and the smaller bottle to Geralt.

"Wives' Tears," he explained, "and the recipe. Folk use it to sober up quickly. Fixes yer head and body right up, soon as you drink it." Geralt carefully wriggled out the stopper, and gave the bluish liquid a sniff. He had never come across such a concoction before, but he truly understood the need for it, so he mentally congratulated whoever had invented the solution. The woodcutter held up the remaining bottle.

"You're a good man, master Witcher, and I thank you for yer help. Drink with me, to my kids' health." Out of so many reasons to drink, Geralt believed this one was highly justifiable. It would have been an insult to refuse; besides, it gave him an opportunity to test the Wives' Tears.

"Sure," he agreed. The man grinned from ear to ear at Geralt and looked sheepishly at Dhu'vaerne.

"Would milady want to join us? If you don't mind the cheap vodka, that is." He shrugged apologetically. The woman smiled warmly.

"Of course I'll join you. Besides, Geralt has a bottle of that mead he might want to share." She flashed the Witcher a smile that was all charm and a handful of dare.

"Of course," the Witcher sighed. "Let's drink."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech translations:
> 
> dh'oine - human  
> vatt'ghern - Witcher


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! So sorry for the too long delay. I did post some other Witcher stuff in the meantime though, so it's not all bad, right? :) Anyway, work seems to be currently allowing for a bit more writing, so hopefully the updates will be more frequent; this fic is alive! ;)  
> Thanks for sticking with the story, and do leave a comment if you feel like it - I appreciate them all greatly!  
> Hope you enjoy the chapter. :)

Wives' Tears did indeed work, Geralt thought, suppressing a groan. As he attempted to simultaneously open his eyes and sit up, a bolt of sharp pain shot through his head, behind his eyes. He crossed his legs, remaining seated, and lowered his head into his hands.

"It figures," he sighed. The potion did make one sober the instant they drank it, the level of inebriation notwithstanding, but that was where the biggest catch hid. It did not cure one of the misery of the morning after. Thus, the Witcher was nursing a royal hangover, complete with a throbbing headache, a pain in his stomach as if it was filled with stones and wires, and a foul mood. The worst thing about being a Witcher at the moment was his superhuman senses becoming even sharper. That meant all the sounds and smells which Geralt would normally ignore as irrelevant background, were now irritating the hell out of him.

He rubbed at his temples, trying to focus on something besides pain and nausia. It had not been a good idea to start with a decent mead and continue with a bottle of a most basically brutal rye vodka. Or five bottles. Yes, that was probably where they had misstepped. Damn the local tradition of drinking a toast to each family member of the drinking companions. And damn large families. Geralt suddenly lifted his head, his gaze sharp but not focusing on anything in particular. Who had they drunk for as his family? And Dhu'vaerne's? Try as he might, he could only remember _all_ of Mikul's immediate _and_ extended family. He groaned aloud.

"Ouch," Dhu'vaerne's voice somehow held both compassion and mockery. "Is it one of those mornings when you solemnly declare you'll never touch a drink again?" Geralt tried to straighten up and return the smile, but seeing the evident feebleness of his attempt made his words come out surly.

"Tempting, but I was never that disillusioned. Always knew I had to brave through it 'cause there's no way I'd ever stop drinking alcohol. Besides, Witchers..."

"Potions, right, right. You did have a good go at it last night though. Especially _after_ you tested the Wives' Tears and saw it worked." Geralt looked at her with his mouth hanging slightly open, shut it, tried to swallow, and realized he was parched. The woman seemed to have understood: she reached for what could either be a waterskin or a wineskin, and dangled it enquiringly. His doubts must have been apparent in his face, as she quickly added:

"Don't worry. Unlike the locals, I don't believe in the hair of the dog's efficacy. It's water." He tried to nod approvingly, but it caused another blinding flash of pain across his head. Barely opening his eyes and blinking rapidly, his blurred vision picked up some movement directed towards him. He judged he was too late to catch the waterskin she had thrown him, and dodged.

"Hey, Gwynbleidd," there was a squeeze on his shoulder, nudging him to open his eyes. When he did, Dhu'vaerne was watching him with a concerned expression, pressing the waterskin she had never thrown gently but firmly into his hand. "Drink. You indeed are a very White Wolf today." He downed the contents of the leather bag in one go, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped the water down loudly.

"So... how bad is it?" The stark blue of the elf's eyes was so painful, Geralt had to narrow his pupils to slits. It felt easier to look now, but it had taken effort that bumped up his headache - there was always a catch. He threaded his fingers through his white hair and massaged the scalp. It did not seem to have much effect.

"I've had worse." The words sounded a weird combination of bristly and boastful as he uttered them. He frowned and sighed. "But pretty bad, yeah." Dhu'vaerne nodded, and the nagging he had somehow expected about how he should not have drunk that much simply did not happen. He was surprised enough to ask about it.

"No lecturing?" As soon as the words left his mouth though, he mentally facepalmed himself. She did not really have a reason to care what he did to himself, so why would she want to say anything at all? Why did he even think she would? Because that was what Triss would do? He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. She cocked her head and smirked at him.

"You look pretty well aware of the situation and its causes. I don't think stating the obvious would make you feel any better. And that's what we want, right?" He looked at her groggily, supporting his head with his hand, elbow tucked into his knee. "Oh don't worry, you can remain your charmingly grumpy self even after we've fixed you up."

_I'm not grumpy_ , he wanted to say grumpily, but decided to save the effort, and maybe save the face, too. She took his silence for the agreement it really was.

"Any of your Witcher potions can help you in this state?" He was sure he had a ready snide remark, tucked away somewhere in his head. All that actually came out was

"Nah." She nodded, as if mentally crossing something off the list, and moving on to the next point.

"Can you meditate?" He lifted not so much his whole head but his eyebrows - shaking his head would result in the equivalent of thousands of church bells ringing in his ears while his brain would feel like it was hailed with stones. She understood his expression.

"Fine, we're left with two options then: your Witcher magic, or my herbs. Can you do that ritual again?" He would have to speak this time. He swallowed hard before rasping the words out.

"Can't just do it, would have to find the nearest Place of Power. Besides, the ritual is not exactly meant for hangover headaches, so..."

"I see. Well we know where the one you used the other day is, so you can have a go there and see what it does? We could leave straight away. Or you can stay here and let me find some herbs to alleviate your symptoms. Which one will it be?" The Witcher felt confused by her obvious intention to help and impressed by her practical attitude.

"Why would you do that? Help me...with this?" Her mouth twisted to the side briefly, betraying the emotion she quickly tried to hide. Was it disappointment? Hurt? She smiled now, merrily and truly.

"Because you aparently don't remember that, but it was established yesterday that we had become fast friends, and that we should stick together, at least for a while, and take care of each other always?" He could not tell if she was pulling his leg - there were definitely gaps in his memories of the night before.

"Mhm." It was as good an answer as any. He pushed off the ground and finally got to his feet, fighting off a wave of nausia that made his stomack churn and his head swim as he closed his eyes for a moment. The same instant Dhu'vaerne was by his side, holding his arm in a grip of surprising strength for her slight build. He gave her a half-nod, and she left him to stand on his own.

"Let's do both then. Head for the Place of Power, look for herbs on our way. We gotta collect those beggatrick flowers for Yaren too anyway." As Geralt checked his two swords, adjusting the straps on his back, he heard Dhu'vaerne stifle a giggle. He looked at her quizically, raising a single brow, and no longer able to hold it, she burst out laughing. It was quiet and melodic but contageous, he realized, as his own lips stretched involuntarily.

"It's really not nice to laugh at the misfortune of others, you know," he chided without malice. She covered her mouth with her fingers, but they did not manage to hold off another burst.

"I'm sorry, I really do feel for you. But I remembered your last night's attempt at playing a herbalist." Not good. He had no idea what she was talking about.

As they started off following the trail away from the almost empty lumberjacks' camp, he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I'm probably going to regret it, but tell me what exactly happened last night." Her almond-shaped eyes became rounder.

"You don't remember that part either? Oh my. You're in for a treat," she laughed.

"Yeah, by all means. Have your moment of triumph."

It turned out that after a few bottles of what could generously be called alcohol, Geralt and Mikul had declared each other "good men", accompanied by profuse back patting, or smacking, as Dhu'vaerne described it. Next, the two went around the camp, insisting people agree with their declaration, waking most of them up first. They would put an arm around a man's neck, and make a speech along the lines of "Geralt/Mikul is a good man," followed by a questioning gesture with a bottle, asking for confirmation. When inevitably received, it had to be sealed with a swig of whatever sloshed in that bottle. They had apparently talked to most woodcutters, and something not unlike mortification started creeping in on Geralt at the thought. They even spoke to Yaren. And then...

"I did what?" Geralt stopped in the middle of the path, his arms hanging helplessly, and his face would have been a mask of horror had it not been unusual for Witchers to express emotions so strongly. Dhu'vaerne faced him, recounting the events calmly, with only an occasional smirk and giggle.

"You wouldn't take his warning that if you went on drinking you wouldn't be fit for his task in the morning. So you explained to him very emphatically - and by that I mean there was quite a bit of unintentional spitting involved - that you could do his task any time, even right then. And you stomped off into the night, well swayed off rather, and came back with a bunch of some flowers you had pulled out right with the roots, and shoved it into Yaren's face. To your credit, some of it did end up in his hands." Geralt crouched, covering his head with his hands and smoothing his hair nervously. Fuck. So much for a dependable reputation.

"Don't beat yourself up, Gwynbleidd. Yaren was a true sport about it. And you have lots of new buddies now, so it's not all bad." It was weird how her comments felt more like good-natured teasing than cruel mockery. Probably because she really did mean well?

They resumed their walk, which was thankfully devoid of monsters this time, as they avoided the marshiest bits. He was still deep in thought, trying to piece the previous night together in his head, when the elf broke the silence.

"Wait a moment," she veered off to pick some celandine, and retured with a question. "What _do_ you actually remember about last night?" He scratched his head, in a futile attempt to boost his memory.

"Well, I remember the names of all Mikul's kids. And his brother's kids'. They were his brother's, I think."

"Yes," Dhu'vaerne smiled. He did not know how to tell her, so he just said it as it was.

"Look, I know we drank to family members' health, and Mikul has lots of those, but we drank way more than that. I have no family, so it had to be yours, but I can't remember anything about it. Sorry." She looked slightly uneasy when she shrugged her shoulders.

"No need to apologize. It was far from all mine actually. You said you always thought of Vesemir as a father." She spoke of that with a warm smile, and Geralt realized.

"Ah, so we drank for the Witchers from my side. Even Lambert," he snickered, and suddenly it all came back to him. "And you said you had only one person alive to drink to their health. So then we drank for the departed. For your parents, and...there were more people, I think." She nodded. They walked in silence for a while.

"I'm glad your memory's coming back. At least that of recent events, but I think it's a good sign. You know, means it's not damaged irreversibly."

"I guess you're right." It took Geralt a few more paces to gather the courage. "Dhu'vaerne."

"Yes?"

"That one person, you didn't say who they were. Didn't give a name."

"I did not." He nodded, taking her hint. "Sorry, won't ask if you don't want to talk about it." She bent down to collect a few leaves of fool's parsley before responding.

"I don't know, Geralt. I might tell you, eventually. Just not yet." He confirmed his understanding with another nod. He was interested in her story, but prying had never been in his nature. Besides, he knew a lot more about her already. He admitted he was curious about that person, the only one she considered family, or just close. He wondered if it was a relative, a friend, or a lover, and if they had joined the Scoia'tael, and if her interest in the guerrilla was due to the one she was now searching for...Geralt stopped himself before he got carried away. She had a right to keep secrets after all.

They were back at the place they had first met in the middle of Geralt's fight with one foe too many. The Place of Power was close, he could feel his medallion hum and tug at its silver chain.

"How do you know where to find these places?" Dhu'vaerne walked around the site he proclaimed as the one where the spheres intersected, leading to a strong concentration of energy. To a naked eye of most it did not look any different from the surrounding area. He himself could only see the wisps of energy using his Witcher senses.

"I don't. I can only feel them in close proximity. My medallion reacts, and I get this sensation that's hard to describe. It's when you feel magic. Like when there's a powerful sorcerer nearby, he gives off that energy. It's similar here, just a lot more intense. Do you feel anything?" Geralt knew of elves' special affinity to magic, though theirs was different from the one practiced by humans, and it did not mean each elf possessed the gift and curse of magical talent. Dhu'vaerne shook her head after some consideration.

"Not much. I do feel magical presence here, if I stand right on the spot, well that's where I think the spot is," she grinned, "but I would not be able to recognize it from afar, or use its power at all." She looked about, surveying the surroundings. "It's quiet, you'd better get down to it. I'll fix the tonic in the meantime, but it's going to be a weak mixture I'm afraid. Half of the herbs I'd use just don't grow here, and I have very limited supplies on me," she shrugged apologetically, and added to herself more than to Geralt, "I should really stock up as soon as I can."

"That's fine. I appreciate you doing it." There was nothing more to it, he had to sit down on his knees, close his eyes, and focus. He had even already done that before with Dhu'vaerne present, but a tiny worm of doubt was still there. He would leave himselt vulnerable for the duration of the ritual. He saw no reason not to trust her, but it was still unsettling.

Thinking and worrying was apparently not a cure for headaches. He moaned with pain, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching at the bridge of his nose. The elf nudged him with a slight shove and a "What are you waiting for?". He settled down on the ground, and soon his conscious thoughts were gone, replaced by the waves of energy surging through his whole body.

When his mind emerged from the depths, he was greeted by a pleasant absence of the knot in his stomach, and by Dhu'vaerne sitting cross-legged nearby, a vial with the tonic at the ready. His headache had not disappeared, but had subsided somewhat, now giving him a wooly kind of feeling inside his head. Due to the lack of herbs, the elf's tonic did not do wonders, but it helped.

"Ready to get to work?" The elf tilted her head, the middles of her palms pressing onto the pommels of her daggers. When he nodded, she smiled cheekily with one corner of her mouth, drew her daggers half out of their scabbards and pushed them back in with an abrupt ring of metal, punctuating their departure.

***

Dhu'vaerne wiped the green slime off her daggers with a small oiled cloth she kept carefully folded in one of her multiple pockets. When done, she shook it out and folded it again before putting it away. She caught Geral watching and smiled, raising an eyebrow in a silent question. He shook his head, almost smiling back. Such care for the weapons called for his respect. They were alike in that: he tended to his swords and his knife after every single fight, often even before he took care of himself, and then again each time before going to sleep. His life, and lives of many others depended on his swords, which often were the only thing between himself and a monstrosity of one kind or another.

Today, he had not picked the fights, not truly. They had wandered about the swamps for a while as he tried to remember where he had previously seen the red flowers they were after. He had a hunch about where they could be, and Yaren Bolt had been right - beggartick was far from easy to pick, as the densest concentration of the pretty little plant was near a collapsed tower, an area thouroughly infested by monsters.

Geralt was used to fighting alone. Hell, he was used to generally being alone, at least that was what he thought. The times when he had others fighting with him, on his side, had been few and far between. It felt natural to only depend on himself, and the habit had resulted in certain pecularities in his fighting style. He never stuck to one place, or one opponent: in his experience they were multiple more often than not. He was fast, swirling, jumping, almost hanging in the air for a moment before raining crippling or even lethal slashes on his opponents; pirouetting away and jabbing with the piercing point of his sword. It was routine, but there was improvisation in it too. He was ofttimes unaware himself where or how he would move next, his unpredictability giving him an upper hand in most battles. That was what worried him to an extent when they had reached the collapsed tower: it was clear they would have to fight. They, not just him, and he was not sure how that would work. True, Dhu'vaerne and him had already fought together before, and he would admit if pressed that he welcommed a helping hand today - a pair of them just as incredibly skillful with bow and arrows as able with daggers. But he was wary of how effective Dhu'vaerne's aid would be, considering they were quite surrounded this time and had to fight in close proximity to one another.

But once again, the elven woman proved to be by no means just assistance - she took on nearly as many creatures as he did himself, and showed impressive results for someone who was not trained in getting rid of monsters. They made unexpectedly well-matched partners in an equally unanticipated tandem. Dhu'vaerne was smart and nimble enough not to get in Geralt's way, or - more importantly - his sword's way. She was more than efficient in doing her part - leaping off the slimey rocks of the ruined tower, her arrows finding aim in drowners' heads and bloedzuigers' bloated bellies; ducking under the swoosh of Geralt's silver blade to catch the monster's taloned hands aiming at the Witcher's unprotected neck, between the curved steel of her daggers.

It felt easy, natural even, and _that_ felt strange to Geralt. It was not something he was used to and therefore comfortable with. But he was grateful for the elf saving his neck again, quite literally this time, satisfied with how the fighting went, and not a little impressed.

All the monsters willing to attack them and thus part with their lives dispatched, "playing herbalist safely", as Dhu'vaerne put it, was next. 

***

"I'd never think you're good at haggling," Dhu'vaerne chaffed as they trudged through the bouncy mud on their way from the ferry.

"I'm full of surprises," the squelching sound produced by his boots seemed to have pulled the snide side of his character to the surface. "He could afford it, and it was the right price for the job. Especially with all the dividing we gotta do." He found that last part uninspiring. The elf caught him by the sleeve, and as soon as she had his attention, pointed towards a path.

"Let's walk there. Your mood apparently gets fouler along with the terrain." He made an almost growling sound.

"That path runs through the Brickmakers' village. Vaska, their elderess is...best avoided." The elf's quizzical "Oh?" annoyed him, and he took a deep breath to compose himself before snapping at her for no good reason. "She's quite strange and most definitely crazy. She speaks in riddles and breaks into the worship of the Water Lords mid-conversation." When his companion still did not find it enough of a reason to avoid her, he added, "Do you know how annoying it can be when even a simple greeting is a ploughing riddle, and she's the only one who knows something that can help you fulfill a contract? Besides, she will want to play dice with me. That will last for hours, probably days, by the end she will insist she won, even if she didn't. If I appear to win, she will accuse me of cheating, although I never do. She will start yelling and calling her vodyanoi gods to bring their wrath upon me. She'll also try to spray holy water over me, even when I in fact try to leave her hut without taking my due winnings."

"In other words, the two of you have a history," Dhu'vaerne crossed her arms and chortled.

"Mistakes were made," he confirmed unwillingly.

"Not to worry. If the old lady tries to viciously attack you again with her puzzles and her gambling habit, I will protect you." They were somehow already walking on the path, approaching the village.

"Mmm," Geralt growled.

It was the part of day when most brickmakers were away earning their bread at the clay pits he had previously cleared of monsters, so at least the village was quite empty.

"Witcher-Witcher!" At the sight of him, a barefoot boy chanted, skipping towards them, then changed his direction mid-way, but stuck to the words. His intonation made it sound like it was supposed to be the beginning of a nursery rhyme or something, but they were not to find out from the boy if there was any continuation past the first two words. Dhu'vaerne giggled.

"What?" Geralt asked unceremoniously. He was looking around to see if the not-exactly-enemy was in sight. 

"It's that boy, the way he says it, you just want to go on with it. Like, I don't know...  


_Witcher – Witcher!  
_

_I'll give you a pitcher,  
_

_You can bring some water,  
_

_In it's vodyanoi."_

"And you claimed you detest poetry." His furrowed brows actually masked a chuckle. Dhu'vaerne laughed brilliantly.

"Touché."

"Witcher!" This time they were greeted by a woman doing her laundry just outside her hut. She stood up, wiping the sweat off her forehead, and pushing a few strands of unruly hair away from her eyes with the back of her forearm. She smiled at Geralt and nodded at Dhu'vaerne pleasantly. The pair of them returned the gesture before the woman went back to her work.

"Seems we've been lucky: the scary Vaska isn't around," Dhu'vaerne quipped as they strode on to the edge of the village proper. He scoffed in response. He felt tired - he felt like he was getting too old for that shit. But he also knew it was a temporary mood. 

There were only a couple of huts scattered further along and slightly off the path. One of them - the most isolated one - attracted the Witcher's attention.

"Take a look around?" He gestured. The elf had no objections. 

"Sure," she stepped onto the softer, marshier ground and headed towards the derelict hovel, her fingers closing on the hilts of the daggers - ever adventurous, ever ready. He followed in her wake, musing over that trait of hers - her will and readiness to go into something unknown simply because someone she knew (and trusted?) suggested it, and because she was curious about everything. 

She circled around the hut briskly, returning in front of the dilapidated door with an "All clear." There were almost whole barrels next to the house, and Geralt started with checking out their contents - some old herbs, hard to discern which though, and sauerkraut that had gone...well, he did not know if something originally sour could go sour, but it smelt terrible. He grimaced, propping the lid closed with a stone, while the woman chuckled at him amusedly.

He made to push the door open, but Dhu'vaerne caught him on his sleeve – it was becoming a habit of hers. He was pretty certain there was no one either inside, or anywhere near, but for some reason the two of them had forsaken verbal communication. The elf wrinkled her forehead, lowered her chin, opened her palm in a disapproving gesture, and finally crossed her arms, casting a daring and expectant look right in Geralt's face. He rolled his eyes dramatically, lifted one hand up and balled it into a fist. He checked if Dhu'vaerne was satisfied with such course of action, and when she nodded her approval, he shook his head and gave three slow, with deliberate pauses in between, knocks on the door.

He was not going to rush it now - was he actually enjoying this silly little game? He stood, his legs wide, planted firmly onto the ground, his arms crossed, and waited. He even started whistling and made a show of turning his head around after the birds, as some swamp ducks quacked flying near them. He had only looked away for a heartbeat, but when he turned back, it was to see Dhu'vaerne lean back and kick the door open with a well-placed boot. A useless, half-rotten wooden latch fell to the floor, not unlike Geralt's jaw. 

"What was that about? Changed your mind about being civil all of a sudden?" She shrugged.

"Not really. It was just clear it was empty, and abandoned, so there was no need for ceremony." He raised his arms to the sides, palms up, opened and closed his mouth. "And when did that become obvious? Before or after you made me knock on the door?" She tittered.

"Come on, Geralt. It was a nice thing to do, wasn't it? And amusing." She laughed mischievously, and he admitted to himself that he would play a similar prank on his friends too. Was that what it was - Dhu'vaerne and him - friends? He stood there contemplating, eventually coming to a conclusion that he would not mind a friend, especially a friend who knew him for as long he knew them, without stuff between them missing from his memory. A noise came from inside - the elf had disappeared in there a good minute ago. 

He went in to find Dhu'vaerne picking thick spiderwebs off the bandanna wrapped around her head as she emerged from under a shelf. He ignited a stub of a candle on the rickety table with a Sign.

"Are we looking for anything in particular?" Dhu'vaerne asked, "Because there doesn't seem to be much of anything here really." He looked around at the single rectangular room, with a small hearth in the middle, a broad brick shelf that served as a bed on one side of it, and a table with a pan and a couple other decrepit kitchen utensils on the other. 

"There might be actually," he gazed up and lifted his hand to push at the low ceiling. It did not fall down, fortunately, only covered them in more dust and spiderwebs. 

"Oh! Really? You were looking for a dwelling?" Geralt decided it was time he stopped being surprised at how quick she was, and just be amused by it. 

"I wasn't looking," he lowered his head to pass under a low beam, "but I would need a place to store some things - what I gather for all the contracts, and...Well, I've lived in the great outdoors for probably longer than I've lived inside. I'll admit I enjoy sleeping under a roof when the opportunity presents itself." He wondered if she would ask where she belonged in those not exactly plans of his. In truth, he had no idea. It had honestly only occured to him now, when he saw that this hut, which he had noticed during his first visits to the swamp, was indeed still abandoned. 

"What do you think?" He asked. She put her hands on her hips, appraising the shack.

"I think an awful lots of things, Gwynbleidd, choose which one you want me to talk about now." 

"Cheeky," he thought and, as it turned out, also said aloud. She smirked.

"You could say so. This can be made into something liveable, sure. Am I invited?" 

That was a direct question he had not expected of her, after she had displayed her diplomatic preferences - in some situations. He scratched his head and sucked air in slowly through his mouth.

"I don't know. Would you? I mean, it's weird. We only just met a while back, and this is like I'm asking you to start living together, which I'm not. Well, not in that way. Fuck, one of the reasons I left Vizima was not to start living with a woman. But that was different. Hell, that's weird." He noticed her too-amused smirk and one raised brow and cleared his throat. "If you still want to join me for a while, just for the company and so we can help each other, teach each other stuff, then...Yeah." She laughed gentler now, picked up a wooden bucket with a huge hole in its bottom and started braking it down by stepping - and jumping on it.

"Why not?" She nodded at the remains of the bucket on the floor. "We'll need fire. I hear those ducks are still near, see you soon." Dumbstruck, Geralt said nothing, just looked at all the mess and trash and dust in the hovel, failing to comprehend what he had in fact just done. It got even darker inside as Dhu'vaerne's figure reappeared in the doorframe. 

"Oh, another thing. We aren't moving in right away, so relax. We're going back to the Lumberjacks' camp, but we'll start working on clearing this place up a bit. Alright?" She smirked, her shoulders jolting up, winked, and left as soon as he nodded.

"Mhm," he said apparently to himself long after she had gone. It made sense. Did it not?


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt crouched to pick up an old lopsided cabinet, which looked like it had been made by someone as a matter of carpentry practice by someone who had had neither skill nor talent. The irregular planks of now rotting wood were put together shoddily, without the necessary alignment. The resulting overall volume of cracks and holes was larger than the usable space inside. Curiously, it had a door, and even a keyhole and an actual lock. The Witcher did not check to see if the lock worked, probably because he had not found the key, or because it was impossible to even shut that door properly anyway. Or because, as he was lifting the wretched piece of furniture, he had lifted yet another cloud of dust as well, which made its way into his nostrils and scratched around too fast for him to control the urge to sneeze. He tried though. He squeezed his eyes shut from the ray of sun coming in through the door, sniffed, held his breath - but sneezed anyway. It was like an avalanche: he felt the inevitability of it rolling over him, and the overwhelming burst, accompanied by the aftershock waves of smaller sneezes and shakes. By the end of it, he was holding only a few barely linked wooden boards in his hands, one of them sporting a rusty nail culpable for his now bleeding palm. The remains of the cabinet were everywhere, from the floor to his clothes, but where they were supposed to be - outside the hut. 

"Bloody pox on it!" He threw the rest of the wood on the floor, kicked it for good measure, and started dusting his clothes, hitting himself a bit too harshly. "Stupid ploughing house! What the fuck got into me to even do this?!" He yelled and stomped on the planks he held responsible for his outburst. He lifted a piece of wood with the tip of his boot and kicked it towards the opposite wall, where it shattered into even more pieces of garbage that now needed to be picked up. He swore again, heaved a heavy breath and ran his fingers through his hair.

_Calm down. There's no need to be losing your shit over this._ He took his heartbeat and his breathing under control, sat on a bench which was one of the few things there sturdy enough to support his weight, and looked at the state of things. It was about a week since they had begun working on the hut, and he might have just had enough of it. The problem was not work - they had in fact done very little of it yet, as Yaren had asked him for another favour. Well, not a favour per se, as he was going to be paid for it, eventually. _Probably_ , he sighed. The dwarf was so happy Geralt had brought him the money from selling the beggartick flowers - as if he had not believed he would get any of it. He apparently did not see that getting into a disagreement with the chief lumberjack over a few coins was not worth it for the Witcher. And now, well, now the contract that had started as a simple monster clearing job, was turning into a whole peace-making, bringing-people-together kind of action. Not that he minded. 

This whole story had made him realise something about himself, and he was glad of it. He liked the discovery of being a Witcher for whom the coin paid for a monster's head was not enough to kill any monster regardless. It turned out he would not only decline a task that required putting to death someone he believed did not deserve it - for the vodyanoi in this case were harming no one - but he would try to find a better solution. True, Dhu'vaerne had had a hand in it. It was curious how she managed to combine expressing her opinions openly and clearly, with being careful not to enforce them on others. She had told him what she thought, had given him her arguments, and waited for his decision. She was happy and supportive when he said he would not kill the vodyanoi, but Geralt wondered if she would attempt to stop him if he wanted to.

Dhu'vaerne was always ready to help: she even volunteered to speak to Vaska. Incredibly, she claimed having no problems or misunderstandings with the eldress whatsoever. The old woman had actually told her what sort of sacrifice needed to be offered in order to achieve peace between the vodyanoi and the woodcutters. She had also apparently taught the elf about more local herbs, and the two seemed to be getting along splendidly. Dhu'vaerne might have been making all that up of course, just for fun, but he had no desire to go check on Vaska to find out.

The whole peace-making business did not really leave a lot of time for fixing the hut, and the elf and himself had only popped in for a short while most days. They had got rid of the rotten cabbage first, burning it together with the barrel, as the stench of it was truly impossible to bear. Now clearing the inside of the hut was due. Geralt was not someone for doing decorations and suchlike nonsense, but he knew well enough all the garbage had to be cleared out. And there was a lot of it. They had to check every piece of furniture for usability, decide what to do with it - keep, fix, dismantle, or simply burn, and then proceed with the chosen course of action.

Geralt grabbed a seemingly whole clay pot by sticking his fingers through the opening, and picked it off the floor. As he turned it to look at its contents, his fingers squished something inside, and a grey spider appeared on his hand. The Witcher blew on it - his first reaction would be to kill a spider only if it were a giant poisonous one. This little arachnid did not fly off his hand though: it looked like it actually crouched a bit on its long thin legs to stay put. Geralt smirked in amusement. And then a wave of tiny spiders rushed out of the pot and onto his hand, scattering at impressive speed. He shook his hand irritably, letting the pot fall to the ground and break into shards. The spiderlings safely escaped into the many hiding spots around the place.

He blew the air out through his mouth slowly. No, it the problem was not work. Or the dust and the dirt. It was what he was doing. What was he doing? Preparing a place to share with someone made him feel nervous and irritable. He knew there was nothing to it really, they would just be companions for a while. It was nothing like what Triss had suggested.

"That must be it," he rubbed at his eyes with dirty hands and sighed.

"What must be what?" Dhu'vaerne grinned as she entered, hauling a sack. She looked around for a place to deposit it, and decided on the shelf by the hearth - it was by far the emptiest surface in the whole place. Geralt only lifted his gaze at her in a silent question. "Oh, I borrowed some tools from Vasil. Might come in handy for repairs."

"Who's Vasil?" Geralt's voice betrayed him not having a good feeling about it. Or just being generally grumpy. The woman picked up on it, but did not comment.

"A brickmaker, Vaska's neighbour. It was his kid who sang nursery rhymes about you." She tried a low stool for stability by pressing her foot on it. 

"He didn't."

"Really? Well he does now," she sat down and grinned at him. "The cleaning's not going well, is it?" He only hesitated for a heartbeat - he was slowly getting used to speaking openly to her. He shook his head. The elf opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind and stood up.

"Come. Take your swords."

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm going to kick your ass, Gwynbleidd," she smiled and left the hovel, confident he would follow. He did. With a degree of surprise, he accepted that his wariness towards Dhu'vaerne was being replaced by trust.

Outside, he saw her disappear between the trees, at a run. What the hell was on her mind? He started an easy jog after the elf, utilising his Witcher senses, quickly falling into a familiar and enjoyable routine of tracking. His steps were light and soundless, even more so than usual: he was after all a hunter tracking another hunter (who probably wanted to be found, Geralt mused, but wanted to make it a challenge).

Dhu'vaerne had not left him much to work with, even his senses could barely pick out the almost nonexistent marks left by her boots. He already knew she was as fast as himself, probably even faster in some situations, he admitted reluctantly; but she had only had about a minute of a head start. So how hard could it be to find her? Turned out it was 10 minutes hard, which was a hell of a lot for a Witcher.

He was scanning the treetops from a crouching position, careful not to let himself known. He was unsure why really, the rules of this... whatever it was had never been announced. There was a movement in the underbrush that drew his attention, but his experience told him not to move a muscle.

"I know you're here, Dhu'vaerne," he claimed aloud, turning just in time to face the elf as she leapt on him from above, daggers poised for a thrust at him. He did not allow himself to be stunned by the shock. He twisted his body and caught her by her wrists, but was pushed back with a sneaky kick to the side of his knee. As he hit the ground, she managed to free one hand, forcing him to bring his forearm up defensively in front of his face. Her dagger stabbed the ground not a palm's width between his neck and his shoulder. The Witcher lifted his feet to kick her off him. But she jumped, turned a somersault, and alighting on the ground, freed her other hand. In a fraction of a heartbeat, she pressed her knees on his chest and swiped her daggers in an elegant move that reminded Geralt of a butterfly. The blades slid into their sheaths.

"Did I not tell you to bring your swords? And now you're dead, Gwynbleidd." she poked him with her index finger, jolted up to her feet and rested her hands on the hilts of the daggers. "And _that_ is not an improvement of your shitty day that I hoped you'd get from a training session." He remained lying on the ground, leaning on his forearms, sorting the facts from assumptions. She _attacked_ him - he _trusted_ her and she attacked him - he _thought_ she attacked him - but in fact she was trying to help - she was bloody good - he did actually feel less shitty than before - she would in fact have killed him had she wanted to. _Damn._

"I did," he laughed and extended a hand asking for assistance. She lifted a quizzical eyebrow, made to help him up, but as soon as he grabbed her hand, he pulled her down, pinned her to the ground, and drew his steel blade. "I did bring my swords," he grinned, and was kicked in the chest with Dhu'Vaerne's booted feet. As he staggered backwards, she righted herself up and started circling him, weapons at the ready.

"I'm glad we finally understand each other," her smile was charming and deadly. "Let's dance."

The blades rang and scattered sparks around them as the two exchanged blows and slashes, perfecting each other's attack and guard by pointing out weaknesses with clever assaults. Playing dirty was apparently not off limits either, as Dhu'vaerne skilfully sneaked her knee or elbow for a kick at a critical spot. Geralt answered her roguish attacks with his brawny arguments. Neither fought in earnest though, and by the end of the practice both were left breathless, sweaty, but unharmed, with the exception of a few insignificant scratches and bruises.

"Feeling any better?" she asked, throwing her head up to take a few long swigs from her waterskin. When done, she handed it to Geralt, whose attention was for an instant occupied by a drop of water that escaped her mouth and made its way down her neck. He shook his head.

"Yeah," he drank until the waterskin was empty, "thanks." She smirked, inhaled with an open mouth and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as if to deliver a joke, but just shrugged her shoulders and smiled instead.

"Glad to help. Want to learn to make one of my bombs?" She squinted at the rare sunshine in the swamps. He smirked and shook his head.

"Got work to do back there. I've had enough distractions. Thank you," he looked her in the eye pointedly, wanting her to understand how much he appreciated her concern and help without having to say it out loud.

"No problem. Want to tell me what it was I helped you with?" Her question made him consider.

"Yeah. If I can figure it out myself first." She nodded as they started their walk back towards the shack.

"Is it me?" she asked, startling him from his thoughts.

"What? No, why would it be you?"

"You did let it slip that your escape from the city was partially due to not wanting to live with a woman. One has to wonder. Well, I do." A warm, confident smile was playing on her lips when he faced her. He had given it a thought, that was true enough. But this was different.

"No," he shook his head, "this is different. I didn't want to settle down, not just live with a woman. You see, Triss, she... she's got a particular character. She wants things done her way. And her way now is for herself, me, and a young boy I left in her care, to live happily ever after like a family."

"Oh. That boy, is he..?" He replied before she could finish the question.

"Not my son, no. I helped his foster mother once, but she died anyway. And Alvin, well, he's special. He's a source. Someone needs to take care of him, teach him to control his magic. Triss can do that. And I - I can't take care of a kid now. I can't have a family depending on me when I don't even know who I am properly. And Triss just behaves like everything's fine, like I know everything, but I don't even remember so many things. Fuck! I hate this!" He stopped to calm down, wiped a stray strand of hair from his face. Dhu'vaerne stood nearby, waiting for him to get hold of himself, patient, not pushing him into anything, letting him breathe. He heaved a sigh. "She says we were lovers before, but I don't remember that, or her from before. As far as I'm concerned, I only met her in Kaer Morhen before the Salamandra attack. I mean, she can be great, but... it doesn't feel right." They reached the hut. "Shit, sorry I ranted about it to you. It's not about you, I don't think you expect of me what Triss does, and you're not her, so no, that's not the problem. Not the whole problem anyway."

"Hey," she put her hand on his arm reassuringly and tugged to gain eye contact. "There's nothing to apologise for. I asked because I'm willing to listen." She looked sincere. "As long as we get some of that garbage outside finally," she added with a grin, dragging a reluctant smile out of him. "This is supposed to be some semblance to a home after all." And there it hit him. He froze. That was it.

"I don't know what a home is. And I don't know if I want one." The simple confession rang like a profound truth in his ears.

"Haven't you ever had a home?" He looked around to see they were both seated on a felled log near the hut, Dhu'vaerne had brought out some provisions and was starting a small fire. He must have been in a daze for quite some time. He shook his head pensively.

"Don't know: when I was a babe in my dear mother's arms I might have. Not necessarily though, considering she gave me up to the Witchers when I was still a kid. I've lived the longest in Kaer Morhen, but that wasn't what you'd call a good home for a child. Or anyone. I keep coming back there though. Every winter, since I started on the Path."

"The Path?" Dhu'Vaerne handed him a piece of stringy dried meat. He bit on it and started chewing laboriously. He got on his feet to fetch a bottle of cherry cordial they had in the hut. He would have preferred vodka, but he was not going to be a chooser now.

"Yeah. That's what we call Witchers' lifestyle. We learn and train throughout childhood, endure terrible mutations, go through agonising trials, and then about a third of us become Witchers and go out onto the Path. To kill monsters. Having ourselves become not much better than them."

"That's not true. You have a significantly better sense of humour than most monsters I've met." Her meteorite-blue eyes twinkled as she grinned at him and bumped her shoulder against his. He shook his head.

"You are something. You know that?" He laughed and prodded her back, a bit stronger than intended, so she lost her balance, and her feet flew up off the ground as she tried not to fall. She laughed, and it sounded like someone threw a handful of jingle bells at him. Geralt caught her by the arm and pulled her back, a hint of a smile serving as an apology. She took a breath.

"What happens to the boys who don't become Witchers?"

"They die." He spared her the details of them dying terribly, their agony often lasting for days. The elf grew thoughtful at that. He knew her well enough by now to realise she was both saddened and enraged by the harsh truth of the Witcher-making process.

"You must have lost many childhood friends. I'm sorry about that." He was grateful she did not say she was sorry for what he himself had endured. "Have you come to terms with that?" He pulled her closer and put his arm around her shoulders. She did not resist. This whole conversation was her consoling him, and it felt better to pretend it was the other way round for a while. 

"Sometimes I think I have. And other times I know I haven't. I'm at least glad I know what I am, if not in so many details." She took a swig of the spirit, and the bottle changed hands. Geralt's face scrunched up as the liquid flowed down his throat, its taste sticking to his tongue.

"Ugh, how can you drink this? It's like a dessert gone bad. All the wrong measures of sweet and alcohol."

"More for me then. I like it." She shrugged, laughing. She drank some more and licked her lips, giving a satisfied chuckle having chased a drop - like a cat picking the remnants of cream off the whiskers. "Come on," she pushed her hands off her lap and stood up. "This fire needs to be fed with some more hopeless furniture. And we have a few hours before midnight." He followed her reluctantly, throwing the last piece of jerky into his mouth.

"Whath wi'midnight?" He wondered, his articulation impaired by chewing. Dhu'vaerne crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

"Don't tell me you forgot. We have to go to the clay pits tonight, see if the vodyanoi accepted Yaren's axe as a peace offering."

"I knew that. Was just checking you," he swallowed hard and broke into a coughing fit: the still too hard piece of meat nearly choked him. The elf gave him a couple of good smacks on the back, by way of assistance or punishment - was unclear.

***

It was an hour before midnight when they passed through the Brickmakers' village. It was empty and quiet, save for a couple of dogs who tried barking at the Witcher and the huntress; but it sounded more like a greeting than a warning. The two dogs chained in front of neighbouring houses padded as close as their chains allowed and started wagging their tails as they recognised the elf. She let them sniff at her hand before petting on their heads and scratching their ears. The attention was received with excited panting and an occasional happy bark. The woman brought a finger across her lips for silence, and motioned with the other hand for the dogs to sit.

"Down," she whispered, "good boy," turning from one pup to the other, "good boy". One sat with a soft whimper; and the other lay down obediently with his head on his paws, and only lifted his eyebrows looking up at her. Dhu'vaerne had been spending a lot of time in the village lately, Geralt noted, making new friends all around.

"How do you do that?" He asked as they continued on out of the village and towards the clay pits.

"It's simple really: you don't hurt them, give them some scraps of food, throw an occasional stick, and rub their belly - and they will be friends with you. Oh, and it helps if you actually like them, too." The Witcher snorted.

"I appreciate the lesson on the care for a dog, but I actually meant..."

"Wait," her fingers around his arm stopped him. "There's someone there," she whispered, "by the altar. Stay your hand," she knew without looking at him that he reached behind his back for a sword. He pulled Dhu'Vaerne aside, behind a tree, and continued whispering.

"So what do we do? What did the Water Lords expert, also known as your new best friend Vaska tell you?" The elf grinned at him.

"Aww, no need to be jealous, Gwynbleidd. The title of my new best friend undoubtedly belongs to you." She disregarded his scoff and went on to explain. "She said no one knows much of the vodyanoi language, the villagers only communicate through objects left on the altar, like we did. But I'd like to try to talk to him. And as far as I remember, you have a particular fondness of the written and spoken word as well, so you won't miss this chance, right?" He shook his head in mild irritation mixed with amusement: she would never stop teasing him about those few words in the Elder Speech; neither would her excitement at novelty and adventure ever subside.

"All right. We try your way." They made their approach heard not to startle a lone vodyanoi. Geralt was not certain he had seen the fishpeople before and he made sure to commit each detail of his appearance to memory. The scaly skin was of a warmer, more pleasant green than that of drowners; the limbs alike to a lizard's and a thick tail gave him the look of a reptile walking on hind legs, though vodyanoi were undoubtedly an intelligent race. As the creature turned to face them, Geralt noticed the only items he was wearing were not exactly clothing: a belt made of oyster shells bound and marked his waist - his body was the same width from chest to stomach, widening towards the hips; and some sort of a half-mask covered his face. The mask, which sat below the vodyanoi's bulging, conspicuously fish-like eyes, must have been an apparatus that allowed him to breath outside the water: another proof of the race's sophistication.

They approached the vodyanoi, leaving a few paces' distance between them. Dhu'vaerne put her right hand to her heart and gave a low nod. There was no guarantee the fishpeople had their hearts in the same place as humans and elves, but the greeting gesture was as good as any, in fact it probably had fewer chances of being misinterpreted. Geralt repeated it a trifle awkwardly, trying to keep his senses alert and his eyes on the vodyanoi. The creature nodded back, but his three-fingered hand lifted and made a sign rearranging the fingers, immediately making Geralt jumpy. He used magical Signs himself, and was acquainted with many a sorcerer: knew how much damage one could inflict with a simple flick of one's fingers. But the vodyanoi's sign was just that, and as it concluded with an open palm towards them, the Witcher's medallion, as well as himself, remained motionless.

"Ceadmil. Sinn teacht ten heddwch," Dhu'vaerne smiled, and as no recognition of Elder Speech became apparent on the vodyanoi's part, she tried again in Common. "Greetings. We come in peace." The effect was the same - none at all. The creature, who they had to hope was some sort of ambassador for his race, only tilted his head and seemed to be listening intently as the elf tried the same sentence in different dialects. Geralt was watching him in turn, appraising, calculating the possible risks. The vodyanoi was unarmed, at least not visibly, and unarmoured; his slow movements gave an impression of thoughtfulness, not aggression. 

"And the moonlight reflects so beautifully off your naked arse." Geralt heard Dhu'Vaerne say without a slightest change in her intonation.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he gritted the words through his teeth, forcing a diplomatic smile the vodyanoi's way.

"Only checking he truly does not understand any of the local dialects," the elf smiled even wider.

"And if he does?" The Witcher made a show of bowing to the vodyanoi to conceal a glare at Dhu'Vaerne. She bowed as well, giving Geralt a quick wink.

"That's why what I said was a compliment. Of sorts."

Right then the vodyanoi started saying something. If it was a response to 'the compliment', or he had simply had enough of nothing happening, they were not to find out, for his speech, which reminded Geralt of water bubbling in a pot, was quite impossible to understand. His gestures though, made more sense.

"I think he wants us to check the altar. Looks like they've left something there." And indeed, on the surface of the large standing stone smoothed by decades of use by the faithful villagers, there lay an amulet. Dhu'vaerne picked it up and showed it to the vodyanoi, spreading the necklace between her fingers.

"Is this is to be taken to the woodcutters?" He nodded, rendering both Geralt and Dhu'vaerne speechless with doubt and frozen for an instant.

"He started nodding before I asked that, right?" the elf sounded half uneasy and half amused. Geralt shrugged.

"Either that, or he appreciates you complimenting the shininess of his ass." She chortled, and stored the amulet in the inside pocket of her leather vest.

"Va faill," this time Dhu'Vaerne's bow was truly low and respectful, and Geralt joined in, with admittedly less zeal however.

A few paces away, the Witcher turned to look at the vodyanoi again, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Hmm." Dhu'Vaerne looked back too as she heard him murmur, but the disappearance did not seem to surprise the woman at all. She seemed already occupied by the next objective, he realised, as they were walking away from village and 'their hut'. "Where are we going?"

"To see Yaren, of course. This peace treaty needs to be completed."

"Now? It's near midnight. I'm sure he won't care for peace for another four of five hours. Especially when we wake him up just to tell him that."

"Well that wouldn't be the first time," she giggled cheerfully, causing Geralt to growl and curse under his breath.

"You're never letting that story go, are you?" She laughed in response, and the sound was utterly foreign in the nighttime marshes, which made it even more pleasing. Geralt chuckled. "You're doing the talking this time then."

"Oh, is that because you'll be too busy picking Yaren some flowers? He likes red ones, don't forget." The Witcher ground his teeth, trying to come up with a suitable comeback, and failing miserably. It took a few paces, but it finally struck him.

"Exactly," he said and vanished off the path in the blink of an eye. He caught her expression of surprise, but a giggle betrayed there was no fear in her. He would not leave her alone at night there, even though he knew by now she was capable of taking care of herself; but he had to fulfill his little impromptu revenge plan.

He found the flowers quickly enough - they thankfully grew in a bunch and, unlike most others, did not close their blooms for the night. He ripped the fluffy yellow blobs out and swiftly caught up with Dhu'Vaerne.

"Here. For you," he shoved the flowers in her hand. Her expression morphed from the wide-eyed "Are they really for me?" to the squinting "I know you're planning something, but don't know what just yet." And she was so right. Geralt gave her an encouraging smile. "Come on, smell them. These are special ones." She scrunched up her nose.

"Ooh, I know! They have a terrible stench, right? And I won't be able to get rid of it for days?"

"No, they don't. I promise." She gave him a side-eye, but eventually lowered her head towards the small bunch. Just as her face was close enough, Geralt pushed her hand up, squashing the flowers into her nose.

"Oh, very funny. Mature, too," she congratulated, her fists tucked to her sides, "but they do smell nice actually," she smiled and had another sniff. Geralt could not keep it in anymore, and burst out laughing.

"Oh, what now?" she demanded.

"Your face," he shook his head, unable to stop, "the yellow really suits you."

"What the hell?" she rubbed at her nose, and her fingers returned bright yellow. Realisation settled on her features, closely followed by the promise of vengeance. "You aren't fast enough to escape." He rushed to the side, trying to lose her, but after a few turns, backtracks and loops his boots squelched into a too boggy area, and he only had time enough to shut his eyes before he felt the tickle of flowers in his face. She was creative - she left the marks on his forehead that looked almost like the sun. At least that was what she told him a moment later, when they sat on a log, catching a breath between the laughing fits. She took a deep breath.

"Can it be washed off?" Geralt shook his head.

"It'll come off by itself in a few hours."

"Great," she got to her feet, "let's make use of it then. We'll tell Yaren it's all part of the special fishpeople ritual, and he's got to yellow his face and splash himself with cold water every sundown for a week."

"You don't really like the dwarf, do you?" Geralt snorted, imagining the lumberjacks' leader conducting the made-iu ritual. Dhu'vaerne sighed.

"It's not that. I don't mind him at all; it's just his job that drives me crazy," her knuckles whitened as she balled her fists, "I have to do something to save at least some of these trees."

"Well," Geralt assumed a helpful tone, "it can help if we find some soot."

"Huh?" She arched a brow at him, suspicious.

"Then I could paint some stripes on you, and you'd look like a bee, and the remaining trees would be even happier to see you." The joke earned him a dig of her sharp elbow between his ribs, though Dhu'vaerne chuckled as she did it.

The woodcutters' camp felt so familiar already, they knew most men by names, and knew where each of them slept. A few lumberjacks still awake by the fire greeted them as they made their way towards Yaren's bedroll. Dhu'vaerne pushed Geralt towards the sleeping dwarf. He sighed, cursed, looked defeated and accepting of his fate, but then pulled her near unexpectedly, and she unintentionally kicked Yaren's boot as she almost lost her footing. 

"Evening, Yaren," she managed a smile as the dwarf glowered at them groggily. "We have good news." He grumbled, sitting up, scratched his head and fondled his beard before replying.

"Speak."

"Wear this amulet, and this sign of peace will ensure you'll run into no trouble from the vodyanoi," she explained, handing him the simple necklace. He snatched it angrily.

"I had to give up my axe, and now I'm to wear jewellery like some harlot!"

"Ahem," Geralt gave him a stern look and crossed his arms over his chest, right below his medallion. The dwarf sighed and put his head through the chain, his disdain clear as day.

"Alright. You did us a great service, and earned yer fee," he reached for a pleasantly fat coin purse and threw it at Geralt, who caught it midair and weighed it in his palm. Satisfied with the pay, he pocketed it, and was about to say goodbye, when Dhu'vaerne sat next to the dwarf and smiled a sweetest smile at him. 

"Now, Yaren, when we're such wonderful friends, could I ask you for a favour?" His eyebrows crawled all the way up and hid behind the rim of his helmet. He waited. "Could you be so kind," the elf's hand rested on his arm and he looked too shocked to jerk it back, "to spare some of those beautiful old trees? You see, they're ancient! They've seen so much, just think of the legacy they hold! Think of how many would be grateful to you!" Yaren scoffed and finally moved his hand away.

"Yer like pestilence, aren't ye? Ye and that other one in the Druids' Grove. See ye both like painting yer faces," he gave Dhu'vaerne a once over and shot a disapproving look at Geralt as well, "just she prefers green, and, ahem, all over." Excitement, concern, and hope were all mixed up on Dhu'Vaerne's face.

"What do you mean, dwarf?" There was a tiny note of steel in her voice, and it was not lost on Yaren.

"What I mean, elf, is that there's another woman, this nymph, who's been badgering me about the trees these few days. "Oh, save the trees!" " his speech became a mockery of a high-pitched female voice, " "They're ancient living creatures! They remember! They feel!" They might paint pretty pictures in their spare time for all I care, I'm just doing my bloody job here! And she comes chastising, wiggling her big green tits at me!"

Geralt was entertained by both the image of the bouncy breasts of an unknown woman, and the comically furious dwarf in front of him. Enraged Yaren was quite the spectacle: he waved his arms about, stuck his chin up, and spit profoundly as he yelled, waking up the other woodcutters, who were watching the scene lying on their bedrolls, their heads propped up on their hands. Dhu'vaerne shot him a wide-eyed look, her mouth gaping open but no words coming out, as she grabbed the dwarf's arm again, speaking intently and urgently.

"Are you sure, Yaren? Her skin is painted green, and she cares for the trees?" The chief woodcutter spit to his side.

"Ye testing my patience now, woman. I already told ye. And before ye ask again, yes, I bloody am sure." She gave him a huge smile, leaned in and pressed a lightening-fast kiss on the dwarf's cheek, laughing at his utterly shocked face. "Piss off!" he waved her off, bemused. 

"Geralt," she beamed at him, "do you know what it means? There must be a dryad vising the Druids' Grove. We have to go there. I," she added after a moment of hesitation, "have to go there, I have to talk to her." He nodded. Of course she could not miss a chance to speak to someone from Brokilon; it was the closest to home she could get now. He understood.

"Of course. We planned to go there anyway to find Yaevinn, but I guess this is important enough to go tomorrow."

"Now?" She bit her lip. It was clear she would pursue the plan anyway even if he refused to accompany her. He did not like the idea of letting her go alone. He shook his head in disbelief at how quickly he agreed to help her, but then again, she never hesitated to do whatever was needed for him. He sighed.

"Sure. After one extra grumpy dwarf, what's waking up a bunch of druids?" She laughed, got to her feet and hit Geralt like a small and pretty battering ram, squeezing him in a hug he did not expect - he had to hug her back not to lose his footing.

"Thank you," she said in a muffled voice with her face pressed into his chest, but he heard it. Just as he heard Yaren grumbling about crazy women, elves, nymphs, and Witchers, who did not let a decent dwarf sleep at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech translations:
> 
> Ceadmil. Sinn teacht ten heddwch. - Greetings. We come in peace.
> 
> Va faill. - Farewell.
> 
> * The translations come from multiple sources, mostly Witcher fandom in other languages, with some additions of my own (loans from the Welsh) for the words I couldn't find. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote this chapter, which turned out monstrously long, and ended up breaking it up in two. :) Hope the ending of this one is not too abrupt. In any case, the next update is already half-done, so will be posted next week. :)
> 
> As always, I thank everyone for reading and commenting. In this chapter we get to look at the events with somebody else's (blue) eyes. :) Hope you enjoy, and do let me know what you think!

Now that she had obtained Geralt's agreement to head for the Druids' Grove immediately, Dhu'vaerne found herself seized with qualms, her heart fluttering in her chest, her cheeks burning, her thoughts racing. She took a deep breath. It was one thing to be excited at a possibility of meeting someone from Brokilon, and quite another to physically face them. What if this dryad was someone familiar? Someone who knew her, and her family's story? Someone she had actually spent much time with as a young girl, and even more after the tragedy? What if the dryad was one of those present when the elf had almost become one of them - what if she was there to take her back after all? Dhu'vaerne discarded the last, too far-fetched idea with a shake of her head, but continued pacing a small patch of the forest vigorously, arms wrapped around herself. She had told Geralt she needed a moment.

She was not at all important for someone to come all this way to fetch her, unless... Unless someone had discovered the connection and wanted to get to her. No, that was impossible. This was a dryad, and they had no interest for the business, politics, or private affairs of others. They would not go so far for just another girl to join their ranks. Besides, I'm not a girl anymore, she corrected herself. There were certainly better candidates, and more easily available, for new dryads. She needed to stop conjuring up unlikely scenarios in her head, and just go and see who that dryad was, and what she was doing in these swamps. Dhu'vaerne only allowed herself one more "what if"; there was an insignificantly small chance the visitor from Brokilon was Aglaïs. She crouched down, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, rubbing her face. She laughed, looking at her still yellow fingertips: Gwynbleidd's silly, childish, but highly amusing prank with dire dandelions had the decision made for her. She would grab a few hours to sleep, or rather to wake, to think and prepare. If the visitor from Brokilon and Dhu'vaerne knew each other, she did not want Geralt to find out her story from the dryad. She would tell him herself, part of it - all of it? - one day. 

Dhu'vaerne breathed out loudly through her nose, and trod lightly over the mossy ground towards the campfire, where the Witcher was having a quiet conversation with two woodcutters. She wavered before coming out into the light, and propped herself against a tree, taking in the white-haired man's chiselled profile: his left side, with the deep scar on his cheek, was towards her. She cocked her head and smiled. He was handsome, in that rough, weathered manner of his - the manner she very much approved of. And yet, they had somehow started off as friends. She certainly felt attracted to him, but there was this rare kind of closeness they had developed in a short time that she did not want to threaten. Despite his grave facade, behind those often knit brows and lips thinned into a line or quivering in a scowl, she had sensed the same need for a friend in him that she herself harboured. It was a longing for company, not any company at that, and in him also a desperation for regaining his memory, returning to who he was. Dhu'vaerne's memory was near perfect, but was looking for a way to grasp something from the past not what she was doing as well? She wanted to help him - and so she would be his friend, his ally. She bit her lip as her eyes threatened to well with tears at the idea that helping Geralt was something she took comfort in in the absence of the one she had set out to help, or at least to find. Maybe her help was not needed or wanted there, maybe it would not make a difference if they met again, maybe it would make it even worse. In the face of all those dire possibilities, her intention, her mission remained unchanged. 

"That was a long moment," the Witcher jested as she appeared, his eyes warm and almost golden with the reflection of flickering flames.

"Your patience is truly laudable, Wolf," she flashed a disarming smile to all the men present, "thank you." The lumberjacks hurried to bid them good-night and retire to their tents and bedrolls, and Geralt knelt, sitting on his heels, staring into the fire. She exhaled and spoke, her words tumbling out in a rush. 

"Geralt, I'm sorry for changing my mind, but I'd prefer to wait until dawn to go to the Druids' Grove after all." She searched his face for his reaction, but he made the job easy for her.

"Smart," he nodded, "it's a short way, but night-time monsters are just out and about, having their little fun. Would hate having to interrupt them."

"So generous," she quipped, pulling her bow off and placing it by her side as she settled down near the campfire. They shared a comfortable silence before his eyes closed as he directed his mind into a meditative state. He was perfectly still. She studied him for a while, keeping track of the dance of the wisps of his long white hair whisked into his face by the wind, and of the steady rise and fall of his chest; before trading her busy thoughts for some restless sleep.

At sunrise, she refused the food: her stomach was too clenched to eat. In between her ragged dreams, she had made decisions, agreements with herself, and plans; had foreseen the events and their outcomes; she was as ready as she would ever be. 

The trek to the Grove was short enough to avoid the topics she did not wish to discuss as yet. Following its curve, they saw that the path ended in a tall gate framed by a low wooden fence. It clearly served no defensive purpose, rather only signifying the boundaries. And even those were likely superfluous as the gate stood wide open.

"No sentries in sight," Geralt noted.

"It's a druids' hamlet," she shrugged, "there is no reason for them to have any. They are known to accept all who seek refuge, and rarely give others any cause to attack them."

"Don't tell me I'm going to be welcome somewhere," he smirked as he offered the snide comment.

"You're welcome in more places than you know, Gwynbleidd, I'm sure," she spoke sweetly, a tiny touch of mockery not negating her sincerity.

"Huh! Flatterer. You sure you don't need anything?" he bumped his shoulder into hers, gently, coaxing a smile from her. She gave no answer: she did not know it. "Hey," he insisted, "you alright?"

"Yes. A bit nervous."

"That's normal. You're going to see someone from home, or as close as you can get to it now. Have you thought about it being someone you actually know?" Her stomach twisted; oh had she thought about that indeed.

"Mhm."

"Hey! That's my answer," he chortled. He made her stop by closing his hand around her forearm - her sleeves were too tight to pull, as she often did to him - and gently forced her to face him. "Hey, I'll be there. I'll help if you need me." She managed a smile, and squeezed his hand on her arm.

"I appreciate that." He nodded and immediately jerked away from her. He reached for his blade, the one with the straight crossguard. Steel. Her bow was taut in her hands before she gave it a conscious thought. Her thumb brushed her cheek as she aimed a nocked arrow at the direction Geralt was watching. She slowly lowered her arms and exhaled audibly.

"Wyverns."

"Lots of them. All flying into the Grove," the rasp in the Witcher's voice betrayed his wariness. She stared and listened intently, but her sharp senses gave no indication of anyone being in distress. 

"It's quiet. No screaming. No fighting," she declared as they hastened towards the entrance. "Could it be the beasts are not attacking?" Geralt walked with his sword unsheathed, eyes focused on the opening into the grove. 

"Unlikely. Is it possible the druids find defending themselves loathsome enough to prefer to die to avoid killing?"

"I should hope not," she frowned, and increased her speed.

They stepped through the gate, weapons at the ready, and watched, and listened. All Dhu'vaerne heard were the sounds of a forest: a flap of wings here, a rustle in the underbrush there, an occasional snap of a twig. It was not normal in one respect only: all the movement she was aware of was unhurried, none of it predatory, as a matter of fact it was all too quiet.

"Gwynbleidd? Can you sense any danger?" She kept her intense stare on the task of scanning the area, "Because I can't." He shook his head, quiet, and turned a circle on the balls of his feet.

"Look," his whisper came right above her ear, his breath hot on her skin, tickling. She forced herself to break from the unexpected distraction and follow the indicated direction, and saw it. A wyvern. It was close enough to attack, and it was in fact boring into them with its beady eyes. It looked... relaxed? Dhu'vaerne swallowed hard. A hunter, she knew that a dangerous predator would only stay calm in plain sight of prey if it was full.

While the elf, the Witcher and the beast were studying each other, hardly moving, a crashing sound came from the nearby trees. All three heads darted in the direction of the noise, to see another wyvern, rambling on clumsily through the branches following the awkward landing. Its wings were hunched up and it waddled on its unstable legs towards them, keeping its head down, as if looking for a clearer path.

Dhu'vaerne held her breath. Set her left foot forward, rotated her hips, aligned her body. She looked down the shaft of an arrow. The closest beast's head was at its point. Her ears picked up on both, each sound around her, and the rush of her own blood through her veins. Geralt lowered his body into a crouch by her side, the edge of his sword targeting the other wyvern. Both hesitated. The animals still showed no intention to attack.

"Cuach aep arse," she hissed through her teeth as the rustle of leaves and branches announced another participant of the unlikely scene. They were surrounded by these strange great flying reptiles who seemed benign. It was too unusual, unnatural even.

"Welcome to the Druids' Grove," the Witcher and herself turned in perfect unison at the sound of a man's voice. He appeared from right behind the largest wyvern. "I must warn you that no bloodshed is allowed within these borders. All are welcome, and all are safe here." The man had a long grey beard and bushy eyebrows, and wore traditional druid's robes of dark brown, its sleeves trailing against the scaly skin of the beast as he petted it on its long neck.

"Safe? These creatures are normally extremely dangerous. There's even a Witcher contract on clearing one swamp area from them," Geralt sheathed his sword and adjusted the straps on his back. Dhu'vaerne followed his lead in putting away her weapons, bewildered.

"I believe this here is not the place stated in that contract," the druid chuckled. "All beasts here are tame, and are of no danger to anyone. Come, see for yourself," he beckoned with his wrinkled hand. Gwynbleidd held his position, with his arms crossed, scepticism clear on his face, when Dhu'vaerne caught his gaze and smiled. His eyebrow arched, but she shrugged, heading towards the largest wyvern. It was not because she wanted to take the biggest risk, on the contrary: the druid was still standing right next to it, and was still in one piece. She heard Geralt grumble but follow her. She hid her smile at first, then faced him and grinned.

"I'm not missing out on a chance to pet a real wyvern. A living, breathing one."

"Mhm." As they drew near, the Witcher stepped closer to the creature's head, examining it.

"Eyes clear, it doesn't appear drugged. Wings aren't clipped either, we've seen them fly. Are they under some spell?" he demanded of the druid a bit harshly, but received a smile in response nonetheless.

"No, I promise," the druid lifted his hands, palms open towards Geralt, "it is achieved solely through years of hard work on our part."

Dhu'vaerne reached out her hand to touch the sharp spikes on the wyvern's head. Her heart was in her throat. The animal lifted his head, looking at her with one reptilian eye, but stayed where he was. She burst out into giggles as a wave of excitement washed over her.

"This is amazing," she whispered, lifting her eyes to the druid, who nodded appreciatively, and Gwynbleidd, who scoffed initially, but soon moved to touch the great beast too.

"Fascinating," the Witcher finally admitted. The elf grinned. She cleared her throat, realising they had left the druid standing aside from them, waiting quietly, patiently.

"We come in search of someone. We've heard there is a dryad from Brokilon vising the Grove. Have you met her?" The druid nodded, smiling pleasantly, as if satisfied he could be of assistance.

"Indeed, she is our guest." Dhu'vaerne opened her mouth to ask where she could find her, but suddenly chocked on emotion. Geralt came to her rescue. She squeezed his arm as he posed the question for her.

"Do you know where she might be?"

"She usually goes deeper into the Grove, the part of the forest which is truly ancient. You could ask around, or look for her yourselves. Or simply wait here, there's a camp nearby. You are welcome to stay as long as you want." Dhu'vaerne gave a little bow and smiled her appreciation, still speechless.

"Are there many guests here at this time? We're also looking for a certain elf, Yaevinn?" the Witcher continued.

"A few. You will probably meet them, although they might be spread thin throughout the forest, we do not control where our visitors want to spend their time. And yes, Yaevinn visits us often. He has been here for a while lately, and is set to be back in a few days, I believe." Dhu'vaerne did not listen too carefully once the subject had changed from the dryad, even though she noted this new piece of information was obtained for her sake, too. She only grasped that Yaevinn would be back soon. Good. She had to find one of the sisters from Brokilon forest first. She waited for Geralt to finish his conversation with the druid before clawing at his sleeve, although still quiet.

"You want to go after her?" She could not be more grateful for his understanding and lack of questions. She nodded. "Want to go alone?" Another nod. "Alright. I'll be here somewhere, come find me," he said with a serious face. Was there a note of worry in his tone? "And good luck," he added softer, cracking a warm smile. She grabbed him in a hug he did not expect, but he responded by patting her on her back gently.

"See you," she felt his chin briefly graze against the back of her head. It felt comforting and reassuring. 

***

She made her way back through the forest slowly, taking her time to press her hand against the rough bark of one tree and lift an overhanging branch of another. She got used to the tame beasts teaming in these woods - nearly. She was so overcome with emotion, with the richness of it all at one point, she had to sit on the soft mossy ground. She looked up into the intricate lace of high canopies, and squinted at the shy ray of sun trying to break through all the shades of green woven together. She lay down and kept gazing, not trying to still her heart, but letting it flutter happily instead. 

She had found the dryad, and it was... so much more than she had thought it would. They were not acquainted, but Dhu'vaerne knew of her: the daughter of Lady Eithné, the silver-eyed queen of Brokilon. The elf remembered those eyes, from when they had briefly stared into her own. The silver-haired lady was fierce and beautiful. Her daughter was that too, but so much warmer, so much more approachable.

Dhu'vaerne bit her lip, staring into the deep greenness around her, replaying the encounter with the dryad in her mind, a small smile playing on her lips. She stroked the blades of grass absently, but even deep in thought, she felt someone watching her. She gasped as she lifted her upper body and leaned on her forearms. There was a grey wolf standing right next to her, simply watching. She sat up. Breathed. Extended her hand. The wolf came closer, sniffed at her palm, bumped it with his wet leathery nose, and padded away. She laughed softly. It was time she returned to Gwynbleidd. 

She found him seated near the holy oak, with his legs crossed, mirroring the pose of a druid sitting opposite him. They appeared to be having a discreet conversation. Geralt noticed her from afar, and gave her a small nod, with a hint of a smile. It probably was not coincidental that the druid got to his feet before she approached them, nodded to Geralt, inclined his head to Dhu'vaerne, and left. She occupied his place.

"I take it you found her," the Witcher declared, "and it went well." The confidence of his statement made her chuckle, but she admitted he was correct.

"Her name is Morenn," she felt the name naturally develop into a smile on her lips as she said it. In response to Geralt's unspoken but indicated by his arched brow question, she explained, "We haven't met before. But it felt like we have."

"I know what you mean," he inclined his head in understanding. "Is she seeking solitude here?"

"She was when I found her in fact, but not normally. I hope you'll get a chance to meet her. I will just ask her to come here to the central camp with me."

"You agreed to meet again?"

"Yes. She didn't mind me disturbing her: it was a pleasure to talk, it felt like a connection to Brokilon both of us cherished. Still, staying longer would be a rude invasion on her privacy, so I suggested a later meeting. She seemed happy to accept." Dhu'Vaerne smiled, replaying the image of the dryad's mesmerising emerald-green eyes: they were easy to get lost in, just like the depths of the primeval forest. "I'll meet her back where I found her just before sundown."

"Why not here?" Was she making it up, or was Geralt unhappy with the arrangement, concerned?

"It feels a lot different to be in the midst of wilderness for someone like a dryad," she explained softly.

"And for someone like you, too?"

"Indeed. I haven't been to such an old place ruled by nature alone in a very long time. It feels special." The man stared at her for a while with an expression she failed to interpret.

"Look," he finally made up his mind, "no offense to any of you, but are you sure it won't be dangerous?" The elf's eyes widened in surprise: not at him thinking a dryad might be dangerous, an encounter with her in fact would be lethal for many a human. But at Geralt being worried for her. Someone truly caring for her well-being had last happened so long ago, she had almost forgot that feeling she had once known so well. A tender wave of warmth washed over her, clearing away any possibility of getting offended.

"I'm certain. Thank you," she smiled and resisted giving him a hug: unlike herself, he did not really give the impression of a very tactile person. She did not want to annoy him more than she knew she inevitably did. "You know what though? I'll tell you where we'll be, and if I'm not back at..." she wondered herself when she was likely to return, "say, at first light, I'd appreciate you checking up."

"Sure," the man looked satisfied with these, more precise terms. "What did you plan to do until then?" She was so happy to be in touch with something and someone from her past, she felt guilty now she had not even asked Geralt about his plans. 

"And you? What will you do when I leave?" He looked taken aback for a moment, as if it had not occurred to him to consider that at all. He pressed his palms against his knees before switching the position of his legs.

"Don't know really. The druids seems to be keen on playing dice, believe it or not. I haven't planned anything specific."

"Do you want to take a walk? There's an incredible variety of plants in this old grove, it's a great chance to stock up on herbs, and generally worth exploring. I can show you some amazing trees." She hoped her enthusiasm for the nature, which surely showed in her face and her voice, would have him more inclined to accept. He cracked a little smile and nodded. "Oh," she remembered, "and I wanted to make one special oil that requires a couple of rare ingredients I've noticed here." Still talking, she rummaged inside her pack to see precisely what she needed, and when she looked up, Geralt was already on his feet, arms crossed, acting like he was snickering impatiently at her.

"Ready to go?" She gave him a smirk in return, adding a squint of eyes. Without further explanation, she headed towards the deeper forest.

"Special oil, you say?"

"Oh yes, my own recipe," pride for her invention was audible in her keen answer.

"Teach me?" She paused, wondering if she should tell him about the effects of this oil or wait until he asked about them. He did not ask, so she shrugged to herself and carefully agreed. "If you want to learn, of course."

"I do. I like that bomb you taught me to make, the exploding fiery one. You know, the one you have that overwrought name for. That's good, despite the name. This might be good too." She bit her lip, grateful she was walking in front of him then, for he had presently sealed his fate. He was making fun of the name she had given to the bomb of her own invention, which exploded, spurting fire around itself.

"I'm certain you remember the very appropriate name, Gwynbleidd. It's just that you can't say it properly."

"Addan aenye," he pronounced slowly, in the intentionally most atrocious Elder Speech, rounding his lips and pouting emphatically. She burst out laughing as she caught a glimpse of his comically scrunched up face.

"I'll make sure to invent an exceptional stinking bomb, and name it after you," she declared, still laughing, dodging a low branch as they ventured into the overgrown territory.

"I'll be honored," Geralt chuckled. 

As the two enjoyed their walk, Dhu'vaerne pointed out the trees and flowers Geralt was unfamiliar with, picked herbs, and at times simply stopped to appreciate the beauty of the wilderness surrounding them. They had collected almost everything for her special oil, only one last ingredient missing - wild cherry bark. She could not remember where exactly she had seen those trees, so they simply wandered about, in turns chatting casually or being silent, taking long breaths of clear fragrant air. When they found the cherry trees, they did not limit themselves by the bark, of course. Dhu'vaerne climbed up to get to the top branches as the lower ones had already been picked clean. The shiny plump fruits were deliciously sweet and sour at the same time, and made for a wonderful addition to the meal of cheese and bread they had under the tree, their backs leaned against the trunk, their shoulders touching. 

"Let's get to work then," Dhu'vaerne announced, licking her fingers to chase the remains of the juice, and taking out a small pot from her pack, followed by all the necessary ingredients.

"Now?" Geralt looked like he was truly enjoying the peace and quiet right then, and she felt sorry to interrupt his rest, but she only had so much time to get ready before she had to leave. She flashed him a most charming smile and gave him the last two bright cherries connected at the stalks. He grumbled a little, but accepted the cherries, and set to work after a deliberate loud sigh. He followed the instructions chopping and grinding the ingredients, as she mixed and measured them. She took a whiff as she stirred in the last component into the oil base: the concoction was coming along nicely. 

"Almost done," she declared, "it needs to sit for a while now, and then get stirred again before it is. We'll need water for the final stage. While searching for Morenn, I came across a little stream nearby, let's go there." The Witcher did not question either her suggestion, or the legitimacy of needing water for oil preparation. He simply helped her collect all the things, and followed as she led the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The story of Morenn the dryad, which begins here, is not going to follow the game canon. 
> 
> *Elder Speech translations:
> 
> Cuach aep arse! - Bird's (owl's) arse! (common curse used by elves)  
> Addan aenye - Dancing Flame


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to everyone following this story, your feedback is greatly appreciated! I'd love to know what you think about this chapter. :)

In the spot where a narrow stream babbled its way into a gentle curve, they were lucky to catch the retreating sunshine. Geralt leaned his swords against a tree, and went to have a drink of the crystal clear water, and wash his face in it. Dhu'vaerne set the pot with the oil mixture among the uncovered, tangled roots of a nearby tree, propped it with her pack, and moved on to unbuckle her leather vest. As she folded it neatly on top and started fiddling with her shirt sleeves, she turned to see Geralt kneeling over the stream, staring at her, intense and unblinking, water dripping from his face. A smile started forming on her lips, but disappeared as she blinked and looked away, confused. For a moment there she thought what she saw in his eyes was desire, but she shook off the idea as nonsense: he only saw a friend in her. Besides, he probably thought she was going to take off more of her clothes, so of course he stared, what man would not? Or woman, she chuckled softly to herself - _I would_ \- as she rolled up the sleeves of her loose thin shirt. She faced the Witcher again when she was done with the sleeves, and lifted her arms up to untie the ever-present bandanna on her head.

"Can you please stir the oil for a bit?" she asked uncharacteristically sheepishly and immediately scolded herself mentally for that. Geralt looked composed and even serious now; he nodded. "I'll just wash my hair," she explained, and his expression turned to near astonishment. "What is it?"

"I've never actually seen your hair, except for the tiny bit at the back of your head that's always visible. You never take this thing off," he gestured to the bandanna she placed on top of her things, but kept his eyes on her short black hair, which she knew looked unkempt, and which she was ruffling apprehensively. 

"Well, you know my secret weakness now," she laughed nervously, "I'm vain about my hair. It's not unusual, most elves are," she started explaining quickly, before she ran out of breath to talk about it in the first place. "And I, as you can see," she turned her head to demonstrate that the left side of her head was partially trimmed extremely short, "have a hair cut that is hard to maintain. This," she pointed her index finger at the close crop, "is supposed to be shaved, but I haven't come across anyone who could do it well enough, following the line with precision, in a while." She stood by the water, at a loss about what to do with her hands. Finally, she got on her knees, darted a look at Geralt, who was stirring the oil diligently, and dipped her head into the cold stream, all air expelled from her lungs at the contact. She heard Geralt say something, but the water bubbled in her ears. She had to ask him to repeat when her head emerged above the surface and she gasped for a breath.

"I said I think it looks nice like this too." He sounded strained, and she could not decide if he was lying to make her feel better, or honestly being someone whose beauty standards were to be seriously questioned. She puffed, spurting water from her mouth.

"It looks great in fact, when it is properly managed. It's just hard to do when you're on the road."

"Why don't you change the cut then?" That was a good question, she had wondered about doing that many times.

"Because someone who cut my hair this way was very special to me," her voice sounded strange, but she told herself it was because she was speaking with her head bowed down, as she massaged some herbs into her scalp more vigorously than was needed. Geralt did not say a word all the while she was rinsing her hair. She was angry with herself. She thought he was angry too, but she dared not look at him just yet. It was unfair to feed him another "someone special" story, without actually telling it. She came closer to him, sat on the thick gnarled roots, and wrung her hair, tilting her head to one side.

"Her name was, is Aglaïs. I hope she's alive, but I can't know that for sure. She is a dryad, and she was my best friend for many years. We became especially close in the years after my parents died, when I was spending a lot of time in Brokilon. The haircut was her parting gift to me when I left home to come on this journey, and it's been some sort of an anchor for me since. I've had to do lots of hunting, even mercenary jobs at times, and just all kinds of work to pay a good barber to get it right. It's ridiculous, really."

"It's not," Geralt finally spoke. "Can you ask Morenn about your friend?" His care and understanding overwhelmed her, and she exhaled shakily before continuing.

"I did. She doesn't know any news of her, except that she was alive about a summer ago when she last saw her. There definitely have been more attacks on Brokilon since then, and Aglaïs is a warrior, so we can't be certain."

"I hope she is alive and well," he said simply, and she believed him.

"Thank you, Gwynbleidd. Me too," she smiled. "Now, give me that pot." He handed it to her carefully, and she thought the brush of their fingers felt different. _Wild imagination_ , she rebuked herself internally, gave the oil a swirl, and proceeded to the part which she knew could be potentially explosive, but at least fun and not as awkward. She dipped her fingers into the oil and started threading them through her longer hair, all the way from the roots to the tips that almost reached her jawline, straitening it up. She avoided looking at Geralt for some time, waiting for him to voice his reaction, and trying to suppress an edgy giggle. He gave her no such satisfaction all until she lifted her eyes at him. He stood with his hands on his hips, the effect of the intimidating pose completely negated by the fact that he was grinning.

"You had me making a fucking hair product," he stated, and she beamed at him in return.

"And you did it marvelously. Trust me, you'll see it was worth your time, too. As useful as any blade oil," she winked. He was quiet, and then laughed, apparently amused by himself, a famous and formidable Witcher, crafting a hair oil. When Dhu'vaerne was done, and her hair dried slightly, she put the pot aside, and stood up. She approached Geralt, looked up in his eyes, and then lowered her head in a slow nod. She could not see it, but she knew what he saw: that mesmerising, fluid flow of her shiny black hair cut longer at the front and shorter at the back, sliding down like a raven's wing.

"You're right. This oil was worth it," she heard him swallow hard as if his mouth had gone dry. She lifted her head, shaking it playfully, letting the now perfectly smooth straight hair fly.

"You don't know the best of it yet," she grinned, "take your brigandine off and get here. You deserved the treatment yourself." He only looked reluctant for a heartbeat, and then threw his leather armour off and joined her by the water.

"Umm," she looked about, figuring out how they were going to do this, " you should lie down on the ground, I think, your head here," she pointed at the water. She took more herbs while he was settling, and stood over him. Geralt lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, and looked at her, unblinking. His look made her question his purely friendly feelings towards her, but she shook her head at them. She enjoyed shaking her head now, when her soft hair brushed against her right cheek. She knelt down, pushed his hands lower to his neck, and started washing his long white strands, cupping the water in her hands and bringing it gently over his hair. When it was wet, she rubbed the herbs in, working the tips of her fingers in circles over his scalp. He closed his eyes and let out a barely audible low moan. It almost made her uncomfortable as she felt the heat stirring up inside her, but the situation was amended by his next remark.

"This is amazing. You are officially better at this than at anything else, archery or whatever." She felt like giving him a slap, but was also grateful: they were back to the banter, their usual friendly jeering. She did give him a slight poke in his shoulder as she laughed.

"Get your arse up." He sat at her command, and she had to stand to massage the oil properly into his hair. It felt silky now, had a silvery shine to it, and smelt wonderful. She caught herself burying her fingers into it and raking them over his head for far longer than was strictly necessary. He did not object.

The silence that ensued demanded to be broken, required some action; and anything Dhu'vaerne currently had in mind - like leaning down to pull his hair away and graze at his neck, or press against him and let her palms glide down his chest - was less than appropriate and the opposite of a good idea. It was not worth losing a new-found friend over a sudden physical urge. She nearly panicked, and to steady herself she placed her hands on his shoulders, firmly, straighforwardly, like a friend should.

"I never asked before," she swallowed, grateful her voice did not betray much of her emotion - though her racing heart he could probably hear made no secret of it. "How come your hair is white? You can't possibly be old enough for it to be natural."

"No," he sounded raspy, but she refrained from squeezing conclusions out of a single syllable. "My hair lost its pigment because of extra mutations they subjected me to."

"Extra?" she asked quietly, "it was not something all Witchers go through? "

"Precisely. I apparently did exceptionally well in the Trial of the Grasses, so they went on to experiment a bit more." He was calm about it, telling the story matter-of-factly.

"It sounds... horrible," she remained standing behind him, her hands still on his shoulders. She did not trust herself to face him yet.

"I survived. I did get even better reflexes and more skills than my colleagues. I won't complain about having white hair," he shrugged. Dhu'vaerne finally walked around and stood in front of him, her hands tucked to her hips.

"And you shouldn't. It looks gorgeous," she smiled mischievously, took a strand of his silvery hair and twisted it on her finger. He sat motionless, as if frozen while she persistently continued playing with his hair acting like a vain young maiden, when she added, "if you only pouted your lips as well, like so," she made a demonstration, which finally cracked his facade and had him laughing. 

"I've killed people for lesser crimes," he tried to sound threatening.

"No, you haven't," she teased, certain that she was right too. "Besides, you like me too much to kill me," she swirled about, finishing with a mocking curtsy. "I'm sorry," she became sad and serious all of a sudden. In her head, she insisted it had nothing to do with him not replying anything to her last remark besides a smile.

"What for?" he was clearly confused.

"I have to go."

"Oh, right, of course," he got to his feet and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand while the other rested on his hip. "Have fun," his smile was sincere, if only a tad melancholic. "And thanks for the treatment. I do feel like a princess now," he said in the manliest voice he could muster. It sent a shiver down her spine, but on the outside she laughed and nudged him with her shoulder.

"You have fun too. Although I know it'll be hard without me," she quipped as she looked back at him before disappearing behind the trees.

As soon as she was out of his sight, she ran. She hopped over the treacherous traps of exposed tree roots and thorny brambles, making herself breathless and dizzy as the greens and the browns blurred past on the fringes of her vision. She needed to shake off the strangeness of this afternoon with Geralt. The ideas that kept popping up in her head were madness: it was not worth jeopardising the relationship that felt safe and pleasant, with the only person she had any sort of closeness now. Sleeping with one's friends was a bad idea - if he would want to sleep with her at all. That thought - both hurtful and sobering - helped her regain her composure. For the next few hours, she would distance herself from Geralt, from her unexpected uncertainties. For the next few hours she would feel like home: not the home, back in Grend, when all her family had been alive and happy there; but a home, for Brokilon felt like a home to her once too, and she regarded dryads as her sisters, friends, and on occasion, lovers. 

The time with Morenn brought the lulling security of being exactly what she hoped it would. The women sat by the fire, talking for hours, combing through all Dhu'vaerne's acquaintances from the Great Forest, delighting in the fact they shared many of those. The elf felt giddy with all the news she learnt and the pleasure of sharing happy moments with someone who was like a piece of her past, like a piece of herself. It had also been a while since she enjoyed a company of another woman. She had been a hunter ever since her childhood, and her recent exploits had practically made her a warrior, too; she believed she did not have the need of doing "girly" things. She discovered there was a degree of self-deception to it: she could do without them, no doubt, but given a chance, she savoured them.

She was touched that Morenn had made preparations for her visit: they had a feast all to themselves. They baked potatoes and wild mushrooms in the fire, enjoyed various nuts and berries all provided by this magnificent forest, and indulged in wine. Dhu'vaerne had not had any wine for longer than she could remember: on the road, with not much coin to spare, it were cheaper, rougher spirits she had access to. The congenial atmosphere of their unhurried conversations against the background of the awe-inspiring nature around them was perfect.

Dhu'vaerne's thoughts only went back to Geralt once or twice in the long hours she spent with Morenn. But now, when the wine had gone to her head, she found it filled with him again. She shook her head, the raven's wing of her hair fluttering about her face, caressing her cheeks.

"I love your hair," the dryad smiled at her. Morenn herself had a thick, heavy main of rich dark brown that she had only partially tied, waves of it streaming down her perfectly shaped body. Back at the druids' camp, she wore some scant garb, but here, in the depths of the forest, she could be herself, be one with nature, be free from the confines of clothes. She was stark naked, save for the multiple amulets, both ritual and decorative, adorning her long neck, shapely arms, and rounded hips. Dhu'vaerne was used to this dryads' habit, and in her time in Brokilon, she had often joined them in it. She marvelled at the light-green sheen on Morenn's smooth, but for a few scars, skin; at the seductive curve of her full lips; at the deep pools of her eyes which darkened from emerald to jade green. 

"Will you braid my hair?" the dryad asked, and Dhu'vaerne was happy to. Morenn sat in front of her, her back leaning on the other woman's bent legs, her head on the elf's knees. Braiding each other's hair was an activity inherent to Brokilon, and the one that signified a close relationship. Dhu'vaerne's fingers worked deftly, producing multiple thin plaits, as the women chatted amiably. It was mostly Morenn who spoke, however. It was not a task that required much concentration, but Dhu'vaerne's mind kept slipping away from the conversation. She could not even say precisely what she was thinking about, but she had apparently been quiet for too long: Morenn slid down her legs slightly and was looking up at her, an enquiring smile playing on her enticing lips. The elf had the dryad's luscious hair between her fingers, and her gaze wandered from Morenn's beautiful face to the swell of her full breasts, and then she did not hesitate. She leaned in and claimed the dryad's mouth in a kiss: fervent, desperate, sweet. 

It felt like a blessing: Morenn was just as eager, and there was no need to doubt or analyse, there was only pleasure. They tumbled in an embrace, both working on relieving Dhu'vaerne of her clothes. Her nudity was greeted by a chilly wind nipping at her pale skin, and by sweltering heat of Morenn's body pressed flush against hers. She moaned at the delightful pressure of breasts against breasts and sought the dryad's mouth hungrily.

They became a tangle of limbs, a mess of bold caresses, a chase of tongues. Each gave and took with abandon, as if there were only them, only here and now.

Morenn released a pert nipple of Dhu'Vaerne's delicate breast, and lifted her head, cupping the elf's face in her hands.

"You are still troubled, me on'hierd elaine. Relax." And she pushed her down on her back and lowered herself between her legs. At the first swirl of the dryad's tongue, flashes of pleasure exploded behind Dhu'Vaerne's closed eyelids. She gasped, and let go.

Morenn's exquisitely skilled mouth and fingers dragged the elf through the sweet torture, bringing her so close to orgasm, but instead of letting her reach it, winding her senses up to a new high. As Dhu'vaerne struggled for breath, her peak looming over her with the most delightful inevitability, she wondered how it would be to feel Geralt's lips where Morenn's were pushing her to her climax. She bucked her hips and surged upwards as the intensity of release washed over her. And then she thought she saw Geralt between the trees. She gasped for breath with both pleasure and panic. She looked down, dragging heavy breaths through her dry throat. It was not fair to Morenn; she deserved more. Dhu'vaerne kissed the dryad tenderly, letting her lips linger and explore, as she tasted herself on the other woman's tongue.

"Your turn," she whispered, lying down on her back again; pulling Morenn to sit over her chest. Dhu'vaerne smiled, looking up at the woman above her, peppering small kisses across her legs, letting her hands wander along the smooth skin and taut muscles. When she finally tasted her, she was delicious.

The women lay in a gentle embrace, incapacitated by the sweet, heavy laziness of utter satisfaction. Morenn was playing with Dhu'Vaerne's hair, while the elf drew circles on the dryad's skin.

"What did you see back there? Just before you climaxed?" Morenn asked nonchalantly. _Fuck_ , Dhu'vaerne sighed, of course she would notice. She pressed her lips against the dryad's bare shoulder.

"I'm sorry, it was strange. I thought I saw someone I came here with," she suddenly froze at the realisation that they were no longer wrapped in the thick, velvety darkness of the night forest: it had already dawned. It meant...

"Who is it?"

"He's... my companion. A Witcher," she paused between each word that she breathed out, heavy with... concern? Embarrassment? Arousal? "Geralt." Morenn shot up into the sitting position, disentangling herself from Dhu'vaerne's embrace as she did.

"Gwynbleidd?"

***

He crawled through the forest with feline stealth, when what he wanted to do most was stomp and growl. He could hardly suppress his anger towards himself. _Idiot. Not just an idiot, but a lecherous creep at that._

He had spent the evening and night caring for his weapons, indeed playing dice with the druids, and having lengthy, both learned and casual conversations with them. He also meditated for a couple of hours. But he became restless long before sunrise. We had a solo training session, regretting Dhu'vaerne was not there to make it not only more efficient but more fun. At some point he realised he was simply regretting she was not there. It had been a strange afternoon they had spent together, and the feeling left by the tips of her fingers on his scalp lingered in his memory and his thoughts.

She was not back when the first light broke through the dense foliage, and without considering it much, he went straight to look for her. Her instructions were accurate and he found her without difficulty. Found them. He had heard the sensuous moans before he saw the women; but he did go on to see. He was uncertain as to what moved him to spy like that, and he felt disgusted with himself for a moment. But that came later. First, was a surge of desire at the sight of Dhu'vaerne, naked, her pale skin flushed red in places, her pointed breasts heaving under the dryad's fingers, her head thrown back as she started convulsing with the waves of her climax. And then she looked at him. She must have seen him. And thought him a horrible, deviant creep. He swore. The fact was that as he was winding his way through the trees and the shrubs, his trousers still sported a shameful bulge of his erection.

 _Well done, smart fucking move,_ he scolded himself. _You had something that was nice, easy, and comfortable. You've ruined the only friendship that felt genuine; you've lost trust of the one person whose trust you were proud of, because yourself, your actions had earned it instead of your reputation._ He swore again, more loudly and more dirtily this time. He considered for a moment that Dhu'Vaerne might in fact be interested in him not just in a friend's capacity: some of her reactions today could be interpreted as the show of her interest and attraction. Or he might be wrong - he probably was. What did he know about romance anyway? He had tried to start a romantic relationship with Shani, and then with Triss, and neither of those ended up in anything good. He dumped one of them for the other; and that other he ran away from into the swamps. Fuck. What hope was there it could be any different with Dhu'Vaerne? Was that even something he wanted? Right now he only seemed certain that his body wanted hers.

He managed to calm down by the time he got to the druids' central camp, but he was bent on avoiding everyone. He sat alone, leaning against a tall alder tree, and took small swigs of vodka from the bottle that was meant to be used as potion base. Fuck it.

The harsh, tasteless drink soothed his nerves, but did not help him think about anything else but what had happened and was happening.

He had only taken care of a third of the bottle when he saw Dhu'vaerne approach him at a jog. She was flushed and breathless, as if she had run all the way. Or as if she had spent hours indulging in sex. For all he knew, it must have been both. It did surprise him that she would run, however. When she found him with her eyes, she darted towards him, and he only had attention for the bounce of her breasts under her thin shirt, visible under the unbuckled leather vest. He knew he had to prepare for that conversation, he had to apologize, he had to... She thumped to her knees on the ground right in front of him, panting. The uneven blush on her cheeks that crawled down her chest, her flying ink-black hair, and that sheen on her skin that spoke of sweat brought by pleasure, made her look ravishing.

"Dhu'Vaerne," he started weakly, not trusting himself with what would come out of his mouth; but got interrupted by her shaking her beautiful head.

"Geralt, I have something to tell you," she breathed heavily, and her expression was a mix of excitement and concern. "You need to see Morenn. I mean, if you want to. I think it's important, but you decide if you want to." The urgency of her statement made next to no sense to him.

"Why?"

"Morenn and you. You know each other from before."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech translation:
> 
> me on'hierd elaine - my beautiful hunter


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys, I've been struggling with "the bigger picture" for this story - specifically how much actual game content I wanted to include. But I think I have it figured out now. :) 
> 
> A big thanks to all the readers! Hope you like this update. :)

The elf held his gaze as Geralt searched her eyes, her face for any explanation of what she had just uttered. It was so far removed from anything he had imagined she would say, it took him time to process it.

"Sorry, what?" he shook his head, failing to find any sense in her words.

"Morenn, the dryad from Brokilon, claims you two are acquainted. I only mentioned that your name was Geralt, and she immediately knew who you were. And she says you knew her too. " Dhu'vaerne explained patiently, heaved a breath, and sat down opposite him. "She is returning to this camp soon, and she - well, we - wondered if you wanted to talk to her. See if you can remember her?"

He guessed from the tentative way she asked that she hoped he did remember the dryad. But his first - unexpressed - impulse was that of opposing it: opposing another attempt at meeting someone who would greet him with that recognition, that joy, or that scorn that had been born of them being familiar with him, having certain experience together, and certain expectations. When all he had was a blank space. All he could offer was the inhuman effort of pushing his brain to come up with some answers, which only yielded a throbbing headache and a profound feeling of emptiness. And the feeling of being helpless, bare, as if in the palm of one's hand, ignorant about their intentions or their true nature. Asking a stranger questions about himself felt utterly foreign too, weird, degrading even. He was unsure he wanted to go through all that again now: it was safe to assume he would have no recollection of the dryad as her name rang no bells. But he also knew it would be stupid to let an opportunity to clear up the fog in his head slip.

"Don't get your hopes up," he sighed, rubbing at his forehead, his eyes shut. He opened them to look at Dhu'vaerne, who seemed to understand that the sentence likely referred to both of them.

"I understand, Gwynbleidd. I know you're good with names. But even if she will seem completely unfamiliar to you, she might provide some new information. And that could jolt your memory. Or not. In any case, you would know more after talking to her than you do now. But it is up to you." Her hand alighted on his knee as she waited for his reaction, patient, calm, logical. He appreciated her leaving the decision to him, even despite all the arguments in favour of speaking to the dryad. He gave her a curt nod.

"Sure, I'll talk to her." Dhu'vaerne gave his knee a squeeze and smiled softly. He wanted to talk to her, tell her he had not meant to spy on her back in the forest, to apologise, but he just sat there mutely for a few moments, not knowing how to begin. The woman apparently interpreted his silence as being deep in thought about the upcoming meeting and left him undisturbed. Soon, before he could force his words to form into coherent sentences, she stood up, looking away from him. He followed the direction of her gaze and stood up too, uncertain what made him do so. 

The first glance at the dryad gave him a wealth of information, but all of it was prompted by his ability to observe and analyse, not by his memory. He swore to himself. What a worthless thing his memory was! He could comprehend how it was possible to forget... Dandelion, for instance, he was in fact certain there had been times in the past he had wished to forget the bard with an annoying habit of getting into trouble and expecting Geralt to save him from it. But this woman? He could not believe his brain failed to hold on to her image. She was stunning. Her exquisitely shaped body moved with feline grace, barely covered rounded hips offering only a hint of a sway; multiple braids tied at the top of her head, long enough to brush her bare skin, snaked over her collarbones and further down, where together with the numerous amulets adorning her chest, they were pushed to rest on the sides or between her completely exposed full breasts. She had a beautiful face too, Geralt noticed the deep green of her eyes, the sensual lips, and he saw clearly the moment she spotted him - her features assumed that expression of familiarity he had seen before, which in her case seemed to display all shades of happiness and sadness mixed up in it. He realised he had been gawking, and took a quick step towards the elf standing near him.

"Dhu'vaerne, I... ," he did not in fact know how that sentence would end, but he was not to find out, interrupted by her.

"I told her you lost your memory, so you don't have to waste time explaining. I'll leave you two to it," she gave him a small smile, after looking away briefly. He could not tell if she had noticed him staring at the dryad, or if she had any reaction to it. She turned to go without waiting for his response, and he barely knew how his hand closed around her arm, firmly, but gently. She looked back.

"Stay," he rasped. "I want you to stay," he repeated. She looked surprised first, but quickly nodded, covering his fingers still holding on to her with her hand.

"It's just very personal, so... tell me if, when you want me gone, alright?" He held her insistent gaze. _I don't think I want you gone_ , he thought, but remained silent.

"Ceadmil, Gwynbleidd," the dryad uttered in a modulated voice, "it is good to see you again." She smiled sincerely, and apparently quick to realise how this was going to proceed, she managed to make it a little less awkward by adding, "I am Morenn, daughter of Lady Eithné, the ruler of the dryads of Brokilon." 

"Ceadmil, Morenn," Geralt staggered: he did not expect her to be royalty. "Thank you for meeting with me." From what he knew from his newer experience, he was not shy in the company of rulers, he had only recently had an encounter with Princess Adda, the daughter of the Temerian King. It was widely known that he had previously lifted the curse that turned the young woman into a striga. Hardly anyone knew that during their latest rendezvous he had also cured her of her boredom, perhaps unwisely succumbing to her royal whim. But Adda was different, she was not someone who held knowledge of his past that was lost to himself. The Witcher nodded his agreement without being fully aware of Morenn's suggestion to find a more secluded place to talk.

"There is another, empty campsite nearby," the dryad ventured, pointing in the right direction, and switching her gaze between Geralt and Dhu'vaerne. 

"Mhm," he confirmed, but Dhu'vaerne let out a string of Elder Speech, from which in his stupor he only caught "aedwiim", and his head snapped as he saw the elf leave.

"I asked her to stay," he said, confused, either to Morenn or to himself. The dryad placed her hand on his arm. When he faced her, the look she gave him and the departing Dhu'vaerne was knowing.

"She will rejoin us shortly," her smile was kind and reassuring, and her hand on his shoulder firm as she lightly pushed him where they needed to go. He complied, looking back to see Dhu'vaerne speaking to one of the druids. He made a few hurried strides to fall in step with Morenn.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. This is just all very... odd. I don't recognise you."

"I gathered as much," she admitted. "Dhu'vaerne told me you couldn't recognize many old friends after your memory loss. I'm not surprised I'm not an exception." If there was a hint of disappointment in her statement, it was too subtle to discern. They walked in silence for the remainder of the way, finally settling around the smoking embers of a died-out fire in the middle of a small clearing. Morenn darted a disapproving look at the smoke, and, with an instant wave of her hand, any fire still breathing deep inside the embers was snuffed out.

"Did we...," Geralt tried to find the right words to formulate a question, when he simply wanted to ask her to tell him everything she knew, "know each other well?" 

"I guess I could say so," she smiled. "We spent some time together once, and then met on a few more occasions. You see, I...," she looked down and bit her lower lip as if to prevent herself from speaking, but soon lifted her head to let their eyes meet. "I was in love with you." He was not sure he heard her right. Moreover, he was uncertain if he wanted to continue this conversation and find out what she had to say. He stared at her, dumbstruck, for a few long moments, until Dhu'vaerne appeared from between the trees. The women shared a mellow glance, and the elf smiled at him, trying to look reassuring, but visibly a little on edge herself. She lifted her hands to demonstrate a jug in each.

"We are in luck," she grinned, "the druid happened to have some Mahakaman mead." Geralt felt his lips twitch in a smile he barely registered. She had bought all the best alcohol she could find, likely paid good coin for it too. He wanted to tell her he appreciated the thought. Instead, he stared at her wiggling the cork out, giving it a sniff, and after a satisfied nod, handing it to him. He took a swig and passed it on. 

"We just started talking," he began, "and there was apparently a... close connection between Morenn and me," he explained to Dhu'vaerne, stumbling over the words, "in the past," he clarified, "which I'm afraid I don't remember," he added, feeling as if he had sealed the deal and could now simply sit there and listen to the tale. It felt right to tell Dhu'vaerne. It felt almost strangely liberating she would find out something about him at the same time he would. 

"Oh," she appeared to blush briefly, looking at Morenn, who ran her hand along the elf's thigh in an excruciatingly intimate gesture. Geralt swallowed hard at the flash of the memory of Morenn kneeling between Dhu'vaerne's legs. He held out his hand for the mead jug. It was unwise to concentrate on that image now. He cleared his throat before facing the dryad.

"How did we meet? I have no memory of it at all. Can you... please tell me everything you know?" He spit the words out with effort.

"Of course. I'll be glad to help if I can at all, Gwynbleidd," she flashed a disarming smile. "Do you remember this name was given to you by the dryads?" Lost for words, he shook his head. "I'm glad you still use this alias, I've always found it beautiful." She took a swig of the sweet mead, her throat bobbing as she swallowed.

"We met on the river Adalatte, where it flows from Kerack towards Brokiloén. The people of Kerack had always hated the dryads, wanting to come into possession of the Great Forest and its many resources, so we always keep that border under strict supervision. I was in that part of our kingdom when I met you, fighting my sisters, hiding a human boy behind your back." There was no sign of hatred in her voice, despite the apparent conflict. If he judged it correctly, there was in fact something akin to... admiration? As he listened to the story, he searched his memory for any flicker of those events embedded somewhere in his head, but failing to find any, simply gave in to Morenn's soothing voice, to her eloquently told tale, listening as if about someone else. He learnt that he had been working on a contract in the minor northern realm of Cidaris... 

Morenn knew nothing of the nature of that contract but it was of little significance for the story in any case, because it all started when he found himself on a remote section of the road that led south from Cidaris to a tiny kingdom of Kerack.

Wandering about in search of a place of power he knew was nearby, Geralt happened upon a family - a Kerackan merchant, his wife and three children - set out to seek better fortune in a larger neighbouring realm. Near the site of a long disused cemetery they got ambushed by a gang of bandits. Their fellow Kerackans did not care for patriotic solidarity: their chief interests lay in the merchant's cart full of goods, and the entertainment they clearly planned on wrenching out of his wife and elder daughter.

The merchant was even good with a sword, and his twelve-year-old son was doing his best to wielded a crossbow, but the bandits were eight grown, strong, armed men. Early on as the fight ensued, the merchant got a bolt in his shoulder, and their strength was simply not enough to protect themselves. A Witcher's appearance was more than welcome. He dispatched of most of the bandits swiftly, but the screams, the clanging of weapons, and the smell of blood drew ghouls to their company. The monsters did not choose who to attack, partially even assisting the humans and the Witcher in getting rid of more marauders. But they went for the screaming people hiding behind the cart next. In the mayhem that followed two bandits managed to escape with a small chest of most valuable goods, and the merchant's youngest son panicked and ran away, trying to escape from the ghouls.

When it was discovered, Geralt offered his further help, but he could not save everyone and everything. The family chose to save the boy. They last saw him running away from the cemetery and towards the forest, which was not good news for a human child.

Geralt tracked the boy by the invisible to a human eye trail of blood and smell of fear the child left in his wake, and found him already inside Brokilon. The boy's physical injury was not serious - a mere scratch of a ghoul's talon on his leg, but he was in deep shock. Geralt had to use some of the Witchers' magic to calm him down, take him by the hand, and start leading him outside the forest.

"I saw you first like that," Morenn's eyes bored into his as she recounted further, "your blade drawn, although not pointing at anyone, your left hand pushing a human child behind you. You were a strange sight to me at first, I thought you foolish: you had to know a sword would never help you against my sisters, our arrows are just too quick even for a Witcher to reach a dryad in time to run his sword through her. Besides, you shielded that boy with your body, although you must have known his life was not worth fighting for, it would be claimed by the dryads. He was human, and he trespassed on our territory. Besides, he was small and wounded, there likely would be more humans looking for him, it was not worth the risk. But you, you hid him behind yourself nonetheless. I thought it foolish," she repeated, shaking her head, looking in the middle distance, as if reliving the events of that day. She met Geralt's eyes and smiled. "I did not know you yet. I appeared in the middle of your shouting argument with my sisters. I could not help but wonder why they hadn't killed both of you yet, and then I saw a few arrows lying at your feet. I listened to what you were saying, explaining the child had wandered in in terror, as he was fleeing death, and asking to let the two of you go. Then, an arrow was loosed - one of the dryads had lost her patience with you. I heard it rattle as it left the quiver, heard the string stretch, heart it swoosh through the air, and saw it hit your blade, as you deflected it in flight. I was fascinated. So I came out to meet you."

"Thank you," Geralt said, watching Morenn from under his furrowed brows.

"For what?" her perfect eyebrows arched with the question, in an expression almost opposite to Geralt's.

"I guess you didn't kill me." The dryad's rumbling, throaty laughter came in response. 

"Indeed, I did not. Although we had a long fight for the boy." Even with his memory impaired, the Witcher was aware that different races, and even the same ones residing in different places, had their particular customs that were often hard for foreigners to understand. Still, this part of the story did not sit right with him. As it apparently had not all those years ago either. He was glad to discover that part of him remained unchanged. 

"Was it really necessary for the dryads to kill the child?" he asked, looking at Dhu'vaerne, who had been silent - she must have been well aware of Brokilon rules and traditions, but it was clear she did not approve of this particular one. She kept her eyes cast down, picking at the grass blades with her deft fingers, instead of looking at Morenn, whose expression now lost part of its softness.

"He saw the Great Forest from within, he knew a way into it: if he remained alive, the desire to come back would likely haunt him as he became older and bolder. It was not worth the risk. My sisters would have done it quickly - he would not have suffered - and left the body away from the forest for the humans to find." Dhu'vaerne still kept quiet but did not try to hide cringing at this. 

"Why wouldn't you keep him there with you?" Geralt wondered. "You could've raised him, he could've lived with you."

"And then what?" The ire rang in Morenn's voice. Her relaxed posture turned stiff, her eyes glistened with the venomous sharp green of a viper. It was unwise to be on the receiving end of her wrath, he realised. "Only girls can become dryads, and there is only one use for a male human or elf in Brokilon. Were we to raise the boy into a man, until he could sire daughters on the dryads? And _then_ have him killed, after he fulfilled his mission?" Morenn's voice became louder and darker, the authority and power in it growing with each uttered word. "Or then release him into the world he did not understand and would not accept, only to try to go back to the Forest, where he would no longer be welcome?" She let out a long controlled breath, and continued softer. "We are not that cruel." Her statement made Geralt contemplate the fascinating ways in which all races seemed to believe in different things with such fervour, with all their being, thinking their way was the correct one. He thought that most others would view killing a child a lot more cruel, but he kept it to himself. 

"I let you go," the dryad sounded somewhat estranged now, "take the boy back to his family. But you returned. You sought me out, although you knew the risk. I was impressed by you. I let you stay in Brokilon a while, you were so bent on learning our ways, trying to understand them - I gave you a chance to do so. You learnt about us and you taught me about others. That was when you earned my respect, admiration even. And," a sigh broke her sentence, "that was when I fell in love with you." Dhu'vaerne let out a gasp at that, and quickly clamped her hand over her mouth, embarrassed. 

"I should not be here," the elf said, scrambling to her feet, avoiding to look any of them in the eyes. Morenn stood with her, stayed her with a grip on her shoulders, and lifted Dhu'vaerne's chin with a finger, forcing her to meet the dryad's gaze.

"I think you should. Gwynbleidd asked you to stay, did he not? Besides, you need not worry, I am not your rival, elaine henn," she smiled softly. Her last statement left both Dhu'vaerne and Geralt confused, and at a loss for words. The elf sat back, avoiding the Witcher's eyes, had a drink of mead and started drawing circles on the jug she was cradling. Morenn's proud, beautiful face was adorned with a hint of a smile when she continued her tale.

"I wanted to be with you, and asked my mother for her permission. But I was to be gravely disappointed, my wish was not to be, for Witchers are sterile. You could not give me a child, there was no bond possible, even a short-lived one." Geralt still could not turn his mind around the fact he remembered none of that. He cleared his throat. He really wanted to ask if he returned her feelings, but he did not dare.

"What happened next?" was a safer question.

"You had to leave. There was nothing for you to stay in Brokilon for. I think," she mused, stretching slightly, lifting her arms to throw off her braids to her back. Geralt was certain she knew the motion made the swell of her breasts even more alluring. "I think you had some feelings for me, too. It wasn't love, I think, not really. There was another woman in your life after all, or on your mind, rather. You seemed to have fallen out at that point, but it's her you loved. You were kind to me though, you were sorry you could not help me. We parted as friends. Not counting my broken heart," she added her part dare, part rebuke, but accompanied it with a small smile. "We have met a few times since, always greeting one another as good friends, helping each other if we could."

"I am sorry," Geralt shook his head, although he could not pinpoint what exactly he was apologizing for. His head was swimming, but not with the drink: the dryad's story lent him an insight into his past, into himself, but only brought more confusion by adding more women to his life. Women he apparently cared for then, but did not know now. "Thank you for telling me this. Is there anything else? I have no recollection of any of those events. I only remember things that happened a very long time ago, and nothing about recent years." Dhu'vaerne finally broke her silence, sidling up to Morenn, and putting her hand on the dryad's thigh.

"I know it's different outside Brokilon, but you have the dryads' knowledge and magic. Can you help Gwynbleidd? Can you try? Please?" Morenn cupped the elf's cheek and gave her a tender look. Geralt felt exceedingly embarrassed both by being present at what looked like an intimate moment, and by the two gorgeous women he had in fact seen being intimate, talking about him, without addressing him directly at that. 

"I don't think so, ma blath elaine. But I shall try. Come, Gwynbleidd," she stood up and motioned for him to approach.

Morenn walked a slow circle around him, and paused at his back. He felt the hairs on his neck stand on end at the puff of her hot breath.

"Undo your jerkin and shirt," she commanded. As he gave her a sceptical look, she pursed her lips disapprovingly. "You do not have to take them off, I simply need access to your chest." He did as he was bidden this time, and after another circle around him - in the opposite direction - Morenn stood in front of him.

"Close your eyes, Gwynbleidd, and try to relax. It will only take a few moments." He felt her one hand on his forehead, and the other pressed against the middle of his chest. Her fingers felt refreshingly cool, her touch soothing. He relaxed. And then he felt a surge of energy run across his body: it seemed to probe, to test, but also to mend. When it subsided, both himself and Morenn let out a long breath. Her hand lingered on his chest only for an instant, and as he opened his eyes he saw the dryad lift her head and smile sadly at him, while Dhu'vaerne watched them from a few paces away, wringing her hands. She stopped immediately as their eyes met.

"I'm sorry, Gwynbleidd," Morenn's eyes shifted from him to the elf, as if she was apologising to them both. "I fixed a couple of bruises, but my healing only really works on the physical wounds. The rest is beyond my power. I can see that parts of who you are are missing, and I regret I am unable to help. But I believe you will regain your memory - I haven't seen any permanent damage - I sadly know not how or when."

"Could your mother help?" Dhu'vaerne enquired, "I hope you know I mean no offense, but she likely possesses greater power." The elf stood there, alone, not trying to approach any of them, gripping her own arms - all signs of former intimacy between any of them as if wiped out.

"She does, I take no offense at that. But I don't think she can simply cure this. Besides, she might not be as eager, after your last meeting," at this she looked at Geralt. He only crossed his arms, half defensively, half aggressively. He had no idea what she was talking about, and he thought he had already made that clear. He felt his patience was at an end.

"I wasn't there myself at the time," Morenn finally realised she had to explain, "but I was told about the encounter. It was in fact not too dissimilar to how you and I met. Only this time you were saving a human girl in Brokilon. A girl who could have become one of us, who should have been ours. But you pried her from my mother. The ashen-haired child must have been very important to you." Geralt did not like any of that in the least: his past life seemed to be nothing but a series of complications.

"What makes you think so?" he demanded.

"You risked your life for her."

"I risk my life every bloody day, for everyone who pays my bloody fee. D'you think that merchant boy meant a lot to me too? Did I not risk my life for him as well?" He was starting to fume with anger and helplessness combined.

"Oh but it was different: this time you faced my mother, and no one gets on the Silver-Haired Lady's bad side without a good reason. And the girl, I'm told, was special. She was of Elder Blood."

"What hell of a difference does it make? She must have been another contract, nothing more."

"Perhaps," Morenn nodded calmly, "or perhaps she was your destiny." That felt like the final drop: Geralt did not think he could contain himself any longer.

"I don't think I even believe in destiny," he cut off, spitting the words out at her. "I thank you, but I need to leave now." He turned on his heels and left without another word or another look at either woman.

He strode away purposefully, although that - going away - was currently his sole purpose. He went for the deeper part of the forest, the one he had not visited yet. He felt his blood boiling with all the repressed emotion at the newly discovered information. He needed to release his anger, to let it go, and come to terms with what he had learnt. He was in the mood for killing something. He needed a monster. He knew he would not find one in the Druids' Grove, so he started to run through the forest to reach its edge as soon as possible. The dense trees slapped his face with their branches, scraped at his skin, but he barely held his arm up to protect himself. 

He hoped for drowners. If he happened on a few, there were normally more nearby he could taunt into attacking him. He needed a thrill, a different kind of a thrill from learning his past. Which, in truth, did sound nothing less than thrilling. But as he left the forest behind, his silver sword drawn, the marshier part he found himself in was the one he had already previously cleared of the drowners at the request of the brickmakers from the village, and there were no new monsters in sight. 

"Fuck!" he roared, kicking the saturated ground under his feet. 

"Why don't you switch swords?" Geralt spun at the sound of Dhu'vaerne's voice: it took her an incredibly short time to track him.

"What are you doing here?" he bristled. 

"Had a sparring on my mind," she replied levelly, her arms crossed over her chest, her hands nowhere near the hilts of her daggers.

"Trust me, you want to leave me be while I'm like this," he warned her with a hint of actual malice colouring his voice. Dhu'vaerne did not flinch, she did not so much as blink at the threat.

"Do _you_ want me to?" she challenged. "I just heard a captivating story, about how you can deflect arrows in flight. They say seeing is believing." In a flash, she gripped her bow in her hand, and seemingly without any additional movement, she nocked and loosed an arrow that thunked into the ground right by the tip of his boot. He did not move away from it, only lifted his eyes at the elf, framed by his furrowed eyebrows.

"There will only be one warning arrow," she smirked, and darted to the side, letting out arrows in quick succession. He dodged all three.

"That's not what I was told you can do!" she continued taunting, "this is by no means as impressive!" She was not playing at it either, at least not entirely, he realised as an arrow grazed his calf, leaving a tear in his trousers and a bloody scratch. That was finally enough.

A roar heralded his abandonment of inhibitions. His blade, the broader steel one, flew around him, cutting the air. He closed his eyes and spun, focusing his hearing on the woosh of the incoming arrows, intercepting them with a metallic cling against his sword. He did not stop, only gaining speed instead, swirling so fast it must have all looked like a blur. He kept hearing the ring of deflected arrows, sometimes even accompanied by a sparkle flashing in front of his closed eyelids. All until it stopped, and there was only the sound of his sword swinging in the air, and his boots squelching in the mud with his swift footwork.

He opened his eyes to see Dhu'vaerne grinning as she started towards him, empty quiver in her hand. He felt better, calmer, but in a strange way: his blood was still pumping in his ears, his heart pounding against his ribcage. She approached, picked up one of the multiple arrows laying at his feet, and beamed at him, looking up. He did not know what possessed him at that moment - had he let go of all inhibitions? - but he threw his sword to the ground, closed the distance between himself and Dhu'vaerne in a blink of an eye, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pressed his lips to hers in a ravenous kiss. She did not push him away. At the realisation that she was kissing him back, his hands moved up to cup her face. Her mouth tasted sweet and bitter, and he did not care of it was the mead on her tongue, or just her.

The kiss ended in them gasping for air, and he retrieved his hands, which now hung limply, as they both took a step away from each other, panting. He knew neither what this was nor what he was supposed to do next. 

"I don't know if I should apologise," he croaked, bewildered and disoriented, and cleared his throat. She bent down to collect another arrow, shook her head, silent, and gave him a faint smile.

He had no idea how to interpret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech translations:
> 
> Ceadmil: Hello/ Good day  
> aedwiim: leave (verb)  
> Brokiloén: Brokilon   
> elaine henn: beautiful one  
> ma blath elaine: my beautiful flower


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! This chapter's shorter than usual, but just because it would've been too long to include all the stuff that follows. Things are picking up here, I promise! The next update will follow really soon!
> 
> As always, all and any feedback is highly appreciated. :)

She concentrated on the task at hand. Collecting her arrows strewn around the clearing, methodically checking the arrowheads and the fletching, and placing them in the quiver helped her gain control over her breathing and her thoughts. Dhu'vaerne felt the strange silence between them push at her uncomfortably, but she had not a slightest idea what to say to Geralt, did not know if she even needed to attribute any significance to the kiss. It was after all a thing of impulse, an act born out of a wild mixture of rage and despair and passion. From Geralt's side, she believed. What made her kiss him back was another question entirely. It was a question she felt was wrong to linger on just now, so she went about the mundane job, deciding to give them both time to cool down and eventually come to realise that the kiss had been no more than a way for them to vent, and forget about it. She soon found her assumptions were quite incorrect.

"Dhu'vaerne," Geralt's hand clasped hers as she accepted a bunch of arrows from him, "talk to me. I feel fucking ridiculous." Her expression must have given him an idea she was offended by his remark, so he took her other hand firmly in his and made her face him. The nearly setting sun coloured his sharp yellow eyes a warmer, softer amber. She watched the darker specs in his irises as she listened to him speak. "Ridiculous because I don't know what's going on; because what I learnt about my past today does not make the picture any clearer; because there seem to be, or have been, countless women in my life I know nothing about; and because you keep helping me; and I really wanted to kiss you; and I have no idea what you think about all this. Also, I feel ridiculous because I don't like the excessive talking and digging into deeper reasons and motives, but I have to. Because I can't bloody understand anything." He looked lost, and worried, and fierce at the same time, and she just wanted to feel the stubble on his cheek under her fingertips. She breathed out a smile. 

"You're right. We shall talk." She regretted not touching his face, not feeling the prickle. As he let go of her arms, she stored the arrows in the quiver without inspecting them, fastened the strap and slid the quiver over to her back. Geralt's blades in their sheaths, they both had nothing more to do with their hands. She smiled at him, looked aside, bit her lip, and added, "I liked it. The kiss." She heard him hiss an exhale. His hands went up into his messed up hair: getting caught in the tangles impeded the purpose of the gesture. She chuckled, amused. 

"There's something you must know," he started, his eyes darting from her face to look all around them, and finally fixating on a felled log. He went to sit on it, without gesturing her to join him, and placed his elbows on his knees, clasping hands in front of himself. She remained standing, only venturing a few paces closer. When their eyes met again, it was a rare case of him looking up at her: with her much more modest height, she got used to being the one constantly looking up. This felt unusual but... nice? As if he had let her take her pick of where she wanted to be. "You must know of two somethings, in fact," he finally spoke. "One, I really appreciate your help. Your friendship is something I truly know," he sighed, visibly uncomfortable with this kind of conversation and the struggle to find the right words for it. "What I mean is, things I don't know about you, I don't know because you never told me, not because I forgot all about them. With everyone else..." he shook his head, giving up on explaining it deeper, "it's a big difference. But another thing you must know is I saw you with Morenn. I didn't mean to, I went looking for you, but... I could've stopped looking, but I didn't." He was looking straight in her eyes now, and she felt a sudden warmth spreading from the centre of her body. "I watched because I wanted to. And I can't stop thinking about you naked." The long breath he dragged out quivered slightly: the embarrassment of it all put aside, it must have been a kind of relief for him to admit that. She was glad he looked away now, it gave her time to think how it made her feel.

"I saw you there. I wasn't sure, I thought at some point I was just imagining things. Thank you for telling me."

"I'm sorry I breached your privacy. But I'm not sorry I saw you. Which is damn stupid, because there's Morenn, and you two have something going on. And it's bloody awkward with her being someone we've both slept with. This is all just some crazy story. Like one of those made up by Dandelion after too many drinks." Dhu'vaerne could not suppress her giggle. She bit her lip, but the sound was already out.

"I'm sorry to have to say this, Gwynbleidd, but you have never slept with Morenn."

"Didn't she say there was something between us when I stayed in Brokilon?" His look was all confusion.

"She did," the elf hurried to reassure him. "But there was no physical element to that bond. You see, dryads really do only have sex for the sake of procreation. She would never have broken that rule."

"I'm pretty sure what I saw the two of you doing was sex." The look Geralt gave her now was his usual sceptical one, accompanied by a smirk. She smirked right back at him.

"Sex with men, that is."

"Oh. Well, I feel even more of a fool now," he stated, but his tone suggested at least some of the tension was gone. "So, do you prefer women then?" She could not guess if he would be happier if she said yes or no. She told him the truth anyway.

"I like them, but I have no special preference for either men or women. I have enjoyed both sexes equally."

"Is that the way with elves?"

"Isn't that the way with everyone? Don't you sleep with whomever you want?"

"Not always." She noticed him swallow hard as they stared at each other for a few long moments. "As far as I know, as least," he added after a while. "From what I've just learnt my life's been quite full of women, thus effectively being a total mess relationship-wise." She approached him with a smile and stood very close, right in front of him, with her legs brushing against his knees. He did not move. Her hands went up to his head, deft fingers starting to work on the knots in his hair. She smiled, resisting the urge to press his head against her chest.

"True, with all the women in it, your love life has indeed been a mess. Just like your hair," she smirked, raking her fingers through the strands of white hair, straightening them. "But I'm happy I am in your life. And I'll be glad to help you untangle the knots. If I can. And if you want me to." His answer was his hands moving to wrap the calves of her legs, and his forehead falling to rest on her abdomen. She stood still and closed her eyes for a while, trying to still her breath too, but quickly gave up on that. He could hear and feel her heartbeat anyway. The moment she put her palms against the back of his head and pressed it more tightly against her body felt more intimate than some of the carnal acts she had experienced in her life. 

"Come on," she finally said. "Let's go to the hut. We'll have something to eat and drink, we'll talk, and maybe even cuddle." He raised his face towards her. Despite his words, there was a smile lingering on his chapped lips.

"I'm not really the one for cuddling."

"Thaess aep, Gwynbleidd. You're getting what you need today, not what you want."

"Wouldn't you prefer to go back to Morenn now?" She looked at him now incredulous, her rising anger almost making her ready to slap him across that annoying handsome face.

"I've just bloede told you what I prefer." Their staring contest ended unexpectedly, with Geralt cracking a big smile. 

  

***

Back in the hut, which was by now made a little more liveable, they lit the fire in the hearth, which could in fact be described as a brick stove, and settled on "Geralt's bench". It received its name for the simple reason of being long and wide enough to serve as his bed. Dhu'vaerne's sleeping accommodations consisted of a place on top of the stove itself, which was smaller but warmer, when the fire was lit that is. They sat with their backs to the warm stove, the most relaxed both had been that whole day. A bottle of questionable spirit was changing hands, improved by the presence of some slightly more decent food. Geralt chewed on the crusty bread they had warmed up in the stove, and Dhu'vaerne threw small handfuls of dried berries in her mouth. She had been studying him all the way from the forest to the hut, and then while they shared the duties of tending to the fire and setting the food not exactly on the table, but just in a couple of whole, if slightly cracked bowls they had, sitting between the two of them on the bench. 

"Can I ask you something?" She shifted her position, regretting abandoning the warmth of the wall on her back, but preferring to sit with her side to it now, her legs crossed, looking at Geralt more directly.

"Sure," he nodded. "You don't have to ask to ask." She laughed at the seriousness of his ineloquent answer, and he smiled back.

"I'm asking because you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It's about that woman Morenn mentioned. The one you loved." His posture stiffened, but he took a deep breath and explained calmly.

"It was years ago. What are the chances she can still be someone important to me when I have no recollections of her at all? And no feelings?"

"There are chances, I think," she contradicted.

"Why?"

"I believe you are that kind of man. We know you don't remember because you lost most of your memory, not because you chose to forget. She might still be important, and you could learn more if you try to find her. Her, and that child." Her suggestion visibly upset him. She honestly did not wish to get on his nerves, but she believed there could be something there that was worth investigating. So instead of changing the subject, she went deeper into it. "What did Morenn mean about destiny?" Geralt now looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and her heart sank for him.

"She thought the girl could be my "Child Surprise". Witchers have a law, the Law of Surprise, which nobody has used in a long time now I think. The point is, when a Witcher saves someone's life, as a boon for his services he can demand the first thing the person saved sees when they get home; or something or someone they don't expect to find at home - there are variations. It's happened enough times that the first unexpected 'thing' at home was a child for the term "Child Surprise" to be born. Morenn thought that girl was important to me because a Child Surprise is believed to be tied to the Witcher who demanded them by destiny. But I remember no child, and I don't think I believe in destiny." Dhu'vaerne noted that again, he did not say he did not believe in destiny, but only thought he did not. He looked at her intently. "What about you? Do you believe in fate?" She shrugged.

"To me believing in destiny is like believing in a storm, or in poisonous mushrooms: they exist regardless of your faith in them, or the lack of it. But often, if you have the knowledge and the skill to do so, you can avoid the storm, or even divert it. You can keep away from the mushrooms, or use them to make a poison coating for your arrowheads, or add a tiny amount into a draught which will invigorate you."

"Are you saying you believe we choose our own destiny?"

"I believe there are multiple destinies, and we can take our pick. At times someone or something else makes that choice for you. But we are still in power to amend it, to steer it on a different course. Although some things will still happen: it will have to storm somewhere, and the mushrooms will grow anyway." He remained silent, thinking over her words. She guessed he was still deciding what he really believed in, and did not wish to rush him.

"Do you think it would make sense to try your luck in Brokilon?" she asked when he did not break the silence for a long time, and only started to look gloomier. He shook his head.

"No. I mean, it might make sense, but I have obligations here. I am a Witcher, and I have to do my job. One of my jobs now is to investigate the Salamandra."

"You haven't spoken about this before," she said after searching her memory for any mention of whoever or whatever the Salamandra was.

"Well, I told you I came here to take a break from everything, them included," he shrugged. Without any further questions from her, he continued. "They were the bandits who attacked Kaer Morhen and stole the secrets of the Wolf Witcher School: the mutagens and the recipes used for Witcher mutations. I have to find them." Dhu'vaerne quieted down. This sounded like a tough task, and she understood how it loomed over Geralt, much like her own task never left her thoughts entirely. It weighed down on her anew now, when she received this reminder that they each had an agenda that was important for them to pursue. If they wanted to be together, what could possibly come of it? They could only offer each other a temporary satisfaction. Maybe this was worth it too.

"You know what? All this," she started hesitantly, hardly aware of what she had suddenly decided to do, "makes me think I now know so much about you. I appreciate it, truly. And I want you to know about me too." She never took her eyes off his, which peered back into her. He looked calm now, relaxed, comfortable even, and it surprised her as a tremulous feeling started creeping up under her own skin. "I haven't opened up about myself to anyone in a very long time. But you deserve to know. I want to tell you." The statement was an attempt to persuade herself too. 

"Then tell me," his raspy voice sounded soothing, and she breathed out with some relief. "I would like to know. But tell me tomorrow." She raised her eyebrows at him, at a loss. "Now, tell me what this is... between us." His question left Dhu'vaerne even more lost. She closed her eyes, breathing slowly. When she looked at him again, she smiled a little.

"Well, now what there is between us is just a little space." She reached out and put her hand on his knee. His large, calloused, warm hand covered hers as he sat there waiting for her to go on. "I don't know what could come of it, Gwynbleidd. But I can't stop thinking about you either."

"Come," he patted the space next to himself on the bench, and she moved over, her back to the wall, and her right shoulder and thigh touching Geralt's. "You know what's weird about it?" he asked quietly, as if he was telling her a secret. "I like being with you. I want to have something more than we have now. But I'm also afraid if we try it'll just destroy everything. I don't think I know how to be... a couple." She laughed softly at his sincerely disconcerted tone and quickly hugged his left arm and pressed her head to his shoulder to reassure she was not making fun of him.

"Of course you don't, Geralt. No one can be a couple. You only need to be a part of something whole. And there are no rules there really. Those parts can fit together in various ways. Sometimes if they don't fit in one, they fit in another. " His snicker earned him a gentle swat. "And no, I don't mean the body parts. I mean, you and I, we fit together perfectly as companions, as comrades-at-arms, as friends. And that is big. I don't know if we would fit as lovers. But we could try." He remained quiet for a while, only the fingers of his left hand moving, rubbing gently on her leg.

"I think I know one other way we fit perfectly together," he uttered finally, standing up. Her breath was caught in her throat for a moment in the anticipation of what he was about to do next. He put the bowls of food away from the bench, took a step up on top of it to reach for her sleeping quarters, and took down the bundle filled with straw that served her as a pillow, and her blanket. He lifted her by her hands and moved her aside for a bit while he swept the crumbs and other small things off his sleeping bench. He then took off his boots, then his jerkin and threw it on the small table, and lay down on the bench, still wearing the rest of his clothes, his back pressing against the warm wall, and motioned her to join him.

"Let's check if I'm right," he said with a faint smile, which had no lust in it, only warmth, and maybe a tad of apprehension. She smiled back and climbed up, kicking her boots off as well. She lay with her back to him, and he hugged her, and her small body did fall into place, fitting perfectly against his. She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled a long breath. 

"You are right," she whispered, and he hugged her even closer.

"I say we should try." She felt his words and his breath on her ear, and shivered slightly, snuggling up to his chest and finding a perfect spot. 

_You're such a liar, Gwynbleidd,_ she thought with a giggle, _"Not the one for cuddles."_

"Yes," she sighed happily, "tomorrow." A soft kiss to the back of her head was his answer. She held his arm wrapped around her and concentrated on the beat of his heart she could feel against her back, before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech:
> 
> Thaess aep - Shut up
> 
> bloede - bloody/damn


	10. Chapter 10

Dhu'vaerne was the first to wake up, just before the dawn. This day greeted her with the sensation of her body being nestled cosily against Geralt's, whose deep, even breathing indicated he was still fast asleep. She disentangled from him carefully, and perched on the edge of the bench, watching his chest rise and fall, his mouth slightly open, an uncharacteristically peaceful expression on his face. Her fingers hovered above the most prominent scar on his face, the permanent mark that ran from his forehead across his cheek, intersecting his left eyebrow. Instead of touching, she retracted her hand, deciding against waking him up just yet. She wanted to be with him, she realised. But she also wanted to be outside, to breathe the fresh air of a new day, to run, and to hunt. It only took her a few moments to pick up her things and leave the hut for the forest. 

As she picked up the pace, both her heart and her mind started racing. The thrill and the anticipation of what was to come consumed her. The sharp edges of the accompanying fears were padded by the relief, the liberation she expected from opening up to someone completely - someone she could trust, someone she already trusted. Dhu'vaerne's heightened senses allowed her to enjoy the early morning hunt to the full, like she had before, when she could revel in the challenge of tracking an animal, in the race and the waiting game alike, in the competition and the test of skill, not only keeping in mind the necessity of putting some food on the table. She was a huntress not only by trade, but in her mind and in her heart, fully, like her mother had been. And she wanted Geralt to know about her too. She wanted him to know why she was proud of her, and to understand.

She lost herself in the hunt and in her thoughts, but on her way home - is that what it was? a home? - she noted the position of the sun and was reassured she had not been away for more than two hours. She was walking with a spring in her step, jogging almost, impatient now to return. There were two hares in her hand, and a grin on her face. As she emerged from behind the trees, she saw Gwynbleidd standing outside the hut, his head lowered, his hands on his hips. She only saw his back, but her heart sank at the sight of his crestfallen posture. He did not hear her approach all until she was a few paces away. He turned, and the look he gave her was... surprised? 

"Hey," she started with a faint smile, her breath catching in her throat, "you almost look like you didn't expect me to return." He said nothing, looking at her hard. "Hey," she repeated more forcefully, brandishing the hares, "I'm a hunter, remember? You didn't think I'd just leave, did you?" He rubbed the back of his neck, cracking an almost boyish smile that looked alien on him, but so delightfully endearing. 

"I might have," he confessed, straightening up, and smirked, his usual confidence back. "I did too much talking last night, that's not what I heard women enjoy in men."

"Is that so?" she laughed, her voice ringing with a daring note. "What _did_ you hear women appreciate in men?" He watched her for a moment, his intense eyes and his cocksure but not quite smug smile captivating. Then he approached, confidently but slowly, allowing her a chance to change her mind, to escape. When she did not, and he stood towering above her, he lifted his big hand and tenderly raked through her hair, caressed her cheek, and palmed her neck. With his face so close, she noted with a tinge of disappointment that he had shaved. But she could feel his hot breath on her skin, and she swallowed hard, and, perhaps betraying her feelings, she closed her eyes even before their lips touched.

This kiss was different from yesterday's. That first one had all been fury and passion and despair, while this one was insistent from Geralt's side but he made it a giving more than a taking. He explored her mouth, one hand holding her neck, his fingers stroking at the base of her head, making her shiver with pleasure. His tongue swirled, chasing after hers, and she answered him with ardour. She let the hares drop from her grasp and wrapped her arms around his back just as his hand snaked behind her bow and quiver and pressed at the small of her back, drawing her closer. She leaned into the touch with her whole body, feeling the delicious pressure of his chest on her breasts, and his fingers back on her cheek, and on the pulsing vein in her neck, and on the shell of her sensitive pointed ear. It felt wonderful, exhilarating. When they stopped, it did not feel like they had broken off the kiss, but like it had come to a natural conclusion, and was the beginning of something else at the same time.   
They looked at each other somewhat expectantly, carefully, as if to gauge each other's reaction, and exchanged silly grins at the obvious signs of delectation. Dhu'vaerne thought about what was to come, and decided that what she wanted to follow was everything, guessing the same desire in Geralt. And she almost said it aloud, almost said everything she wanted him to do to her, everything she wanted to do to him, but they did not get that chance just then.

As they stood still in each other's arms, smiling and breathing hard, they heard a noise which was a combination of a stifled cough and a whimper from behind the shack. Before they separated, Geralt cursed quietly, giving her a look full of pained sarcasm at the untimely interruption. 

"Come out!" he ordered, without making any attempt to go inside and fetch his swords. Still fully armed herself, Dhu'vaerne took a swift step back, her bow with a nocked arrow at the ready in a fraction of a moment. A boy's head appeared from behind the wall, his expression worried, uneasy, but not entirely scared. 

"Radko!" Dhu'vaerne's arrow was back in the quiver as she walked towards the boy from the village. He was hesitant to move, catching the look on Geralt's face which clearly read "Beat it, kid." But seeing that she was not angry with him, and that the Witcher only sighed and crossed his arms over his chest as she gave him a look and a smile, he finally ran from his cover and clasped her leg. 

"You remember Radko, Geralt? He is Vasil's son," she started explaining, trying to jog his memory, "the one we met in the village, the one who..."

"Right," the man sighed in recognition, "the one who sang couplets about me." Although at first the Witcher's knitted brows made him look displeased and disapproving, he soon cracked a small smile, and the child nodded his head quickly, displaying multiple gaps of his missing teeth in his wide grin.

"What it is, boy? Did your father send you for his tools I borrowed?" She cupped the kid's muddy cheek and ruffled his hair. He shook his head readily.

"No. Gran Vaska sent me. To fetch ye," he darted a timid look at the elf and the Witcher in turn. "Both, lady Dhuvy and Master Witcher." She felt her lips stretch in an involuntary smile at the name the boy had given her.

"Lady Dhuvy?" Geralt grinned. The name indeed sounded quite ridiculous.

"Dhu'vaerne is a bit hard for him to pronounce," she grinned back. Radko only nodded somberly, not finding it at all amusing. "Why does Vaska need us, do you know?"

"There's trouble, she says. We need help, she says. You must come." His little face was grave as he kept switching his gaze from one adult to the other. "It's urchint." 

"Of course," she said, smoothing the unkempt hair on the child's head, "we'll help." She smiled at Geralt apologetically. "If it's urgent."

Going to the Brickmakers village right then was far removed from what Dhu'vaerne had intended to do. But it was plain to see that Geralt was even more unhappy with the way the events unfolded. As if it was not enough that they had been interrupted in likely the most pleasant moment he had had in a while, he was now forced to communicate with Vaska, which he dreaded. Trying to make it easier for him, and honestly not finding it particularly problematic, Dhu'vaerne took the leading role in the conversation with the village eldress. What they learnt was troubling news indeed: a few groups of brickmakers had gone missing in the span of a few days, and Vaska was afraid they were held captive by the Salamandra bandits. The mention of those ignited Geralt's temper.

"The Salamandra?! What do you know about them? And why haven't you ever told me about them before?!"

"You never asked, young man. Should I have told you about any random thing you didn't ask about, heh? Well, I can," the old woman's voice trembled due to not so much her age but indignation and spite. "Why don't I tell ye the secret how not to fart after eating boiled cabbage? Or the story how Vasil lost his tools two summers ago because he thought he saw a rusalka?" The Witcher exhaled a slow, controlled breath, while Dhu'vaerne only bit her lips, trying to suppress a giggle he would not appreciate.

"I apologise," Geralt finally uttered curtly. "Can you please tell me what you know about the Salamandra? And why you think they have captured the brickmakers?"

"I don't know much, except they're bandits. The mean kind at that. They came to the swamps a few times before, but mostly left us alone. A while back there were some men asking about beggartick flowers. They had those pins on them dirty shirts."

"Like this one?" Dhu'vaerne was intrigued by the small round brooch adorned with a lizard that Geralt had swiftly taken out from one of the small pouches on his sword belt - it was clear he knew exactly where it was.

"Yes," Vaska nodded, without really giving it a good look. "I only heard rumours they might be in the swamps again, but I can't tell you nothing for sure. I need your help, Witcher," she said, in fact looking at Dhu'vaerne, and finally adding, "and yours, girl. Will you help?" She knew the answer to that in her heart right away, but she let Geralt be the first to do the talking now. When she faced him, she discovered he was looking at her questioningly, as if asking for her confirmation. She nodded readily.

"Yes, we'll help. Do you have any idea where we should start?"

"I hear the druids are keeping an eye on those Salamandra. Seek out the Hierophant, ask him," she instructed Geralt and turned to Dhu'vaerne, "Find our people."

"We shall, Vaska," she reassured.

***

"Just so fucking typical," Geralt scowled as they trudged through the mud, taking a shortcut to the Druids' Grove.

"What is?" she wondered politely, although certain he would tell her anyway.

"This," he spread his arms and pointed around. "But a few hours ago, I thought this was going to be a nice day. A really really nice day. Because I planned to spend it doing something very different with you." He stopped walking and gave her a long look which was a mixture of annoyance, impatience and...lust? She smiled.

"I know. But can you really think about pursuing bodily pleasures when we are out to save people in distress?" He kept looking at her, all over, as if peeling off each bit of her clothing with his eyes.

"You know what? It turns out I can," he smirked, and she laughed and bit her lip. 

"I think I can too," she breathed out quietly, a conspiratorial look on her face, as she closed the distance between them. "So for now we'll have to be satisfied with thinking. And this," she added, pressing her hands against his chest, and standing on her toes to kiss him. He took her offering as a man ravenous, kissing her ardently, trying to press her tightly to him, but her bow was in the way. He growled, and lifted her up effortlessly, his hands clasping beneath her bottom. She hooked her legs around his torso and her arms around his neck, now lowering her head to kiss him. When the need for air drove them to parting their lips, they laughed and pressed their foreheads together. They said nothing, but after she slid down his body and back onto the soggy ground, they continued walking side by side, their bodies touching from time to time, their fingers interlacing before breaking apart in front of a larger puddle, but snaking back to be locked together. They were silent, but each time their eyes met, both were smiling. 

In the Druids' Grove their investigation started with the search for any familiar faces. Geralt gestured towards one of the druids, explaining he was one of those he had played dice with.

"Greetings, White Wolf," the bearded man inclined his head at their approach, "and Black Winter child." Her greeting got caught in Dhu'vaerne's throat at the shock of hearing her own name. She squinted at the druid, and from the corner of her eye noticed the shift in Geralt's pose. The man in long brown robes lifted his arms in an attempt to placate them. "Morenn has spoken of you. You are not hard to recognise." Of course, she breathed out and relaxed.

"We seek the Hierophant," she stated, still not exactly her usual diplomatic self.

"You have no luck there, I'm afraid. He is away. However, we would regret it bitterly if we could not help you. Can any of us be of assistance?"

"It depends. Do you know anything about the Salamandra bandits?" Geralt took out the badge again, but the druid waved it off immediately.

"No need, I know who you speak of. They approached us some time back. Their leader wanted us to use the nature's magic for their purposes, to provide them with potent herbs to enhance their narcotics."

"They're making fisstech," Dhu'vaerne hissed.

"Indeed," the druid confirmed. "The Hierophant refused to help their vile cause, and my brothers and I have been tasked with watching the bandits ever since. We know of their presence in the swamp." 

"Do you know if they've captured anyone? We're looking for the missing brickmakers."

"I know nothing of the brickmakers, or any other captives, I'm afraid. But I believe I could gather some information from my brothers about the bandits' possible current locations."

"I do apologise for the indecorous eavesdropping," all three turned at the sound of a well-modulated voice, as its owner revealed himself to be an elf walking towards them from under the nearby group of trees, "It was not my intention." He cut a truly imposing figure. He was tall; his sleeveless brigandine showed off particularly muscular arms which clearly knew well how to swing a sword. In fact, judging by the presence of one scimitar strapped on his back and the other on his left hip, the elf had a preference for wielding double swords in battle. His long black hair left nonchalantly lose, piercing mossy-green eyes, arrogantly arched eyebrows and a resolute expression on his noble looking face left Dhu'vaerne in no doubt as to his identity. Her heart thumped in her chest. 

"My name is Yaevinn," the elf said, addressing Geralt and herself, nodding familiarly to the druid.

"Geralt," the Witcher eyed the elf warily.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Gwynbleidd. Your fame travels ahead of you. And, your companion?" he asked, facing Dhu'vaerne. She froze for an instant, unsure if she had a liking for being referred to simply as someone's companion, even Geralt's. She made an effort to calm her breath.

"Essea Dhu'vaerne. Ceadmil." He gave her a polite little bow. "Why did you interrupt this conversation?" she asked, studying the man she had initially come here to meet, to probably join in his fight, if she deemed him, his goals, and his ways worthy. And it was still one of the possible directions her future would take, she realised.

"I meant no disrespect," he assured them, his eloquence seeming to be a sign of both his wisdom and his conceit. Dhu'vaerne mentally cursed to stop herself from making assumptions too soon. "I happened to hear your discussion of the so-called Salamandra. I am aware of at least two places in the swamps they can be found."

"How do you know?" Geralt asked harshly, his yellow eyes narrowing in a suspicious squint. The Witcher's reaction left the elf entirely unperturbed.

"I come to this sanctuary to think, to make plans," he paused, "for the Scoia'tael unit under my command. I travel these parts extensively and am well familiar with them. Besides, I am a good observer. As most Aen Seidhe are." With his last comment, he sent an intent look Dhu'vaerne's way. She read pride in his gaze, and a sense of inclusion, as if he was saying that they, he and she, were the same, belonged to the same. She had never been the one to think elves above all other races, but this, a possibility of belonging, sharing a common cause, a common legacy, spoke to her. She wondered if Yaevinn guessed any of that, but before she could check, he turned to Geralt. "I have seen humans who were not members of the said gang among some groups. I believe they might be those you seek to save."

"You saw people in distress and you refrained from helping them?" Geralt growled menacingly, but only managed to elicit a faint smile from Yaevinn.

"I believe," the Scoia'tael commander stated evenly, "that neutrality is in fact part of the vatt'ghern code. Is it not? While the Scoia'tael are known for doing precisely the opposite of helping dh'oinen." The elf's voice reminded her of a freshly forged sword plunged into cold water: it hissed, at its sharpest, at its most dangerous. But here, he had ventured into the territory Dhu'vaerne would not accept for all their common elven heritage.

"Ear'modlice, Yaevinn, thaess aep," she bristled, and Geralt stared at her in mild shock, while the now quiet and nearly invisible druid's mouth fell agape. Only the one she was addressing was calm, if not amused. "You fight for the independence of the Elder Races, for elves and dwarves and halflings and gnomes and everyone else who is not human, to live, simply, normally, without fear and without facing danger and scorn at every step. I can understand that. But in this struggle, it is stupid to brand all humans as undeserving of help, or even life. As it is stupid to paint the world black and white, because it is far from that. I heard a lot about you as a great commander and leader, but I did not expect that upon meeting you I'd discover that you're also such an arse." Having puffed and spit out her tirade at him, she stood balling her fists, fuming. She thought she might have overdone it a little, but well, it was too late now, she was not about to take her words back. To her astonishment, Yaevinn watched her with the expression which seemed to be not even close to offense, but rather... fascination? He gave her a gracious smile.

"This was quite a fiery argument, Dhu'vaerne. I am prepared to listen. I admit I am curious about your thoughts and the experience that led you to such opinion."

"I might tell you, one day, when you take your head out of your arse." All right, this was definitely uncalled for, she decided, but she was not exactly in control anymore. To this, Yaevinn simply laughed, openly and sincerely.

"I am indeed enchanted to make your acquaintance, Dhu'vaerne. Thanks to your... influence," he faced Geralt, "I am inclined to help. I will, however, require a favour from you in return, Witcher."

"What's it to be?" Gwynbleidd rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest: he did not look amused by the exchange between Yaevinn and herself. While Yaevinn, a tiny smirk playing on his lips, rested his left hand on the hilt of the scimitar on his hip, the muscles in his bare arm flexing. Dhu'vaerne wondered if this display of masculinity was simply a typical reaction of two men strong of both character and physique upon meeting a powerful adversary, or if it had anything to do with her own presence. On second thought, she dismissed the idea as nonsensical.

"I need a letter delivered to Vizima, where I am not welcome," Yaevinn explained. "And it is an urgent one. I'd be obliged if you took it to Vivaldi, a dwarf, and returned with his reply." Geralt's face did not betray a lot of emotions, but Dhu'vaerne guessed what they could be. There was no way he would want to go to Vizima now, especially with the brickmakers waiting to be saved.

"That could be done, but not right away. There's no saying what will happen to the missing people while I go away playing at being a messenger boy."

"I'll do it," Dhu'vaerne interrupted, before the negotiations reached a deadlock. "You," she looked at the other elf, "will go with Gwynbleidd, show him where the brickmakers are probably kept, and help him recover them. And I'll deliver your letter swiftly and go back with the response as soon as I receive it."

"No," stated Geralt, "I don't like that idea."

"And what is the alternative?" she asked him calmly. "You and I running around the expanses of the swamps trying to find the brickmakers and then taking on the entire gang all by ourselves? If we follow my plan, I'll ask someone else for assistance, and you'll have better chances." Geralt was shaking his head in disagreement, although she expected he would soon see she was right. Her cause was helped by the unexpected arrival of the very person she planned to seek out.

"There'll be no need to ask for assistance, dear Dhu'vaerne. I'll gladly help." Geralt watched Morenn, who today was wearing the garb covering slightly more of her nudity. The dryad approached, and the two women embraced.

"Thank you," Dhu'vaerne whispered.

"Maeth Morenn," Yaevinn bowed his greeting. "I say Dhu'vaerne's right. The three of us have good chances of retrieving those... brickmakers." Dhu'vaerne counted the fact that he refrained from using the word "dh'oine" as a little victory, and felt grateful to him for it. The elven man walked up to her, produced a sealed letter from under his extremely wide belt, and handed it to her, his words taking her further by surprise. "I am indebted to you for this, venturing into town will not be an easy task for an elf. With this, I regret I shall miss the opportunity to fight at your side." She swallowed, feeling unexplained embarrassment for a second.

"You might still get that chance," she delivered confidently. "You are right about one thing though, I appreciate the reminder." She took off the bow and the quiver full of arrows from her back and handed them to Morenn. "I never part from this bow, but to risk losing it would be worse. Will you take care of it for me in the upcoming battle? This way I'll take part in it, too," she smiled weakly, not at all happy about leaving the bow that meant so much for her behind, but the dryad accepted it with a charming and reassuring smile of her own.

"I will be honoured to use it, and will return it in perfect condition, I promise." At this Geralt, who had been clearly restless for some time now, directed his frustration at the dryad.

"Why would you help humans, Morenn? This is not your battle."

"I am not about to help humans, Gwynbleidd. I am about to help Dhu'vaerne. And you. I am free to choose which battles to make mine. I have made my choice," a graceful, if only slightly haughty half-smile played on her lips. Geralt rubbed his hands across his face and finally approaching Dhu'vaerne, held her by her arm.

"Can I have a moment?" They strode away from the others with a few brusque paces. He grabbed her by the shoulders, urgently but gently. "Are you sure you want to do this? I don't like you risking yourself so much." She cupped his hands with hers, crossing her arms to do so.

"I'm sure. You know it would be a risk here just as well. And you know I can take care of myself. And, Morenn and Yaevinn will be formidable allies to you in any battle."

"Mhm. I'm not sure I like this guy," he growled through nearly clenched teeth.

"Give him a chance. People can sometimes surprise you," she smiled, thinking about him and herself. "I'm only sorry our plans for today got ruined. But I promise we'll pick up right where we left off once I return," she grinned, and trailed a finger across his cheek and along his firm jawline. He sighed, closed his eyes, and seemed to relax, even if just a fraction. To remedy the insufficient effect of her touch she pulled him by his neck, and reached for a kiss. And it felt more powerful indeed, albeit the taste was bittersweet. There was less heat in it, but tenderness, reassurance, and comfort were aplenty. Geralt cracked a weak smile cupping her face in his hands, and nuzzled behind her ear. When he faced her again his face became serious.

"Take good care of yourself. If you need any help, with Yaevinn's assignment or otherwise, find Zoltan Chivay, he's a dwarf, and a friend of mine. And if you need a place to stay or any finances," she started shaking her head and opened her mouth to protest, but his index finger landed on her lips, silencing her. "You don't know how long it will take you, or how dangerous it will turn out to be. The Slums, the Hairy Bear Inn," he peered into her eyes as he stressed the name, and continued after she nodded to confirm she would remember it. "It's a nasty area, full of thugs and cutpurses and plain murderers, so be extra careful there. But you should be safe in the inn - I paid the Innkeeper some good coin to hold on to some things for me, and a room. Take anything you need from that stash, there's some weapons, precious stones, spirits and reagents. Remember not to use any Witcher potions." She grazed her lip thoughtfully, and nodded. Geralt mentioning his potions made her think of something else she could accomplish while in Vizima.

"Is there anything I can do for you while I'm there? I could take some of those drowner brains and archespore and the like for the contracts. No sense in wasting this opportunity." He heaved a deep sigh at her offer, but eventually conceded.

"You're right. Go back to the hut first, the contracts are in my pack, just take whatever you can bring into Vizima without raising suspicion. Zoltan will help you find the contract givers and make sure they pay up accordingly."

"So it seems I am bound to meet that friend of yours. I'm looking forward to it," she grinned at Geralt' pained expression.

"Hmm. I'm not so sure about all this. But he's probably the most dependable person I know there. Who would be inclined to help you," he added."

"What do you mean?"

"Triss is a lot more powerful, but it wouldn't be a good idea to run into her. You know. All things considered," he rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I hope Alvin's alright," he added staring into the middle distance, as if unaware of voicing his own thoughts. 

"I'll try to check up on them discreetly," she promised readily.

"No. I didn't mean that."

"Stop. I'll do what I can. Without getting myself into trouble. End of story." He scoffed and shook his head.

"You're unbelievable."

"Isn't that what you like about me?" she jeered. "You take care too, Wolf," she pecked him on the cheek before walking away, but halted and turned back midstep. "Oh, and one more thing," she smiled flirtatiosly.

"Yes?"

"Don't shave while I'm gone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech:
> 
> Essea Dhu'vaerne. Ceadmil. - I am Dhu'vaerne. Hello.   
> Aen Seidhe - elves who came to the Continent before the humans appeared.  
> Vatt'ghern - Witcher  
> Dh'oinen - humans  
> Ear'modlice - with respect  
> Thaess aep - shut up  
> Maeth Morenn - Lady Morenn


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We see Geralt in some gory kind of action in this chapter. But there will be a light moment or two. :)  
> Dhu'vaerne's adventures in Vizima are to follow in the next chapter. Hope you enjoy. :)

Geralt pushed his long hair aside and rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. It was no use watching the direction Dhu'vaerne had left - her nimble frame had disappeared between the trees in the blink of an eye. And now he had an unlikely band of comrades-in-arms formed out of the blue, to lead against the Salamandra, to find and save the brickmakers. He did not know if he wanted to fight along with Yaevinn and Morenn - and what about that druid? - and he definitely did not see himself fit to lead anyone. He worked alone. He was not used to having to look over his shoulder, gauging the risks, the dangers, and the possibilities of success for his companions in addition to his own. Except, he was, in a way. Going back only a little while, but lately he had been fighting side by side with Dhu'vaerne, who had never been an obstacle in battle. She was daring at times, yes, even provoking the opponents, but never reckless enough to put him or herself at great risk. His two newfound companions, the Brokilon dryad princess and the celebrated elven Scoia'tael commander, could not possibly be a nuisance to the Witcher. Or could they? 

There was no sense in standing there mulling over the same few thoughts, so Geralt cut off his wary rumination, and headed towards the small group, now joined by a tame wyvern, whom the druid was feeding off his palm, while all three were engaged in a quiet conversation. The Witcher only caught fragments of Elder Speech. At his approach, Yaevinn turned to face him.

"Do you need to make any preparations, Vatt'ghern? I hear Witchers use special elixirs to enhance their power." There was no provocation in the man's voice, mere curiosity, but Geralt felt annoyed with the elf nonetheless. 

"We do, but there'll be no need for it now. I have a few potions on me. It'll only take a moment for me to prepare, you will be wise to do the same," he glanced at them briefly, before making a few abrupt steps towards a fallen tree. He unsheathed his both swords, took out a tiny vial of greenish oil and a piece of worn-out, soft cloth from his belt pouch, and started smearing the oil over the steel blade with instinctive but precise, nearly automatic moves. From the corner of his eye, the Witcher saw that Morenn nocked an arrow, moved Dhu'vaerne's bow in different directions, squinting at the point of the arrowhead, and put the arrow back in the quiver without releasing it, apparently satisfied enough with the brief inspection. Yaevinn did nothing at all by way of preparations: he stood leaning against a tree, arms crossed, a slight smirk on his lips as he watched Geralt openly. It made the Witcher wonder if such behaviour was a sign of the elf's hubris, or he was indeed always ready for a fight. He made a mental note to watch Yaevinn in the upcoming battle. The druid continued fussing with the wyvern, thus making it not at all clear for the Witcher if the bearded man intended to join them in the end. 

"I'm sorry," Geralt cleared his throat, immediately receiving everyone's attention. "I don't recall your name," he continued, having caught the druid's gaze. 

"Keaghan," the robed man provided readily, with a slight bow. The name seeming completely unfamiliar, Geralt was inclined to think it was the first time the druid had introduced himself. 

"Do you think you can provide us with any advice before we start?" Having asked the question, the Witcher wondered what was going on with him, why he was unwilling to ask a direct question. It was as if he had too many things on his mind, and the one he was dealing with now was not of most importance. 

"Oh, I hoped you wouldn't mind my joining you, I believe I can be of better service if I do. Some magical ability combined with the knowledge of this place might prove useful."

"Of course," the Witcher agreed, "thank you." 

They took off soon enough, heading north: Yaevinn in the lead, closely followed by Geralt, Morenn, and Keaghan bringing up the rear. As they trudged through the boggy terrain, Geralt felt that he, despite his Witcher's prowess, was landing the heaviest and loudest steps, his boots squelching in and out of the mud. Yaevinn darted a few glances his way but did not comment. Instead, he led them onto the wooden trail that nestled above the water, half sunken in places but able to support their weight and, the best of all, the planks placed apart from each other did not squeak. They had to leave the boardwalk for a longer while only once, when the planks themselves running out coincided with a considerable number of drowners attacking as soon as the company plunged into the mire.  


The fight turned out not too demanding, Geralt found. As he pirouetted from one drowner to the next, he had time to notice Yaevinn's skilful swing of his twin scimitars, as he jumped, crossing the blades in the air, and landed in an elegant stance, drowned dead's head rolling at the elf's feet. He was good, the Witcher had to admit. He did not even see Morenn in that fight until it was over, and she walked gracefully between the bodies, pulling the arrows from the monsters' eye sockets, pressing the skulls with her foot. Keaghan, it turned out, was not too happy with the whole fighting business. His participation showed in exclusively providing healing, for Geralt's and Yaevinn's minor scratches. As the men were wiping their blades, and the dryad straightening the fletching on the arrows, the druid stood aside looking positively dour.

"What is it, Keaghan?" Geralt ventured. 

"Ah, well, you see, we druids hold all life dear," he started with visible relief at being asked. "So we despair at any life lost."

"Even that of a monster?" the Witcher's incredulity showed in his voice, while Yaevinn only smirked sheathing his scimitar, satisfied with its clean glint.

"But of course! Everyone is a valuable part of the whole, and together we create balance. Whichever small part of our sphere is eliminated, it disturbs the balance. You see, everything exists for a reason." 

"In this case the reason being these creatures got thrown in from another world during the Conjunction of the Spheres, they got stuck here, they haven't evolved in these parts naturally, and don't have an ecological niche. So, with all due respect, I don't think killing a few drowners upset any balance in these swamps." Despite the meaning they carried, Geralt tried to make his words not sound too harsh for he had no wish to make the druid his enemy, but was unable to resist voicing his point of view. Which also happened to be the correct one. To his surprise, the elf supported him.

"Not to mention the fact the monsters attacked us first. And had we done otherwise and failed to protect ourselves, the world being rid of us four would have created a much bigger unbalance," Yaevinn arched a brow, his expression acknowledgement of not only his own worth, but that of everyone present. The druid sighed. 

"That much is true. These deaths could not be helped. It saddens me still." 

As they reemerged onto the boardwalk, Keaghan trailed a few steps behind, explaining that he wanted to offer a short prayer. As if they had agreed to do so, the remaining party members huddled closer.

"Do you think he realises we intend to kill people where we are going?" Geralt, who was walking in the middle, asked. 

"He must," Yaevinn shrugged. "Although he will be loath to take part in the actual killing, I believe he will provide the necessary support." 

"He knows we shall be fighting an evil. The kidnappers and drug makers certainly are a big enough balance-upsetting factor," Morenn agreed, and Geralt nodded, pondering the odds by which he happened to be in this particular company. "Does your thigh still trouble you, Gwynbleidd?" Morenn's quiet but not secretive question shocked him by its both, unexpectedness and implications.

"What do you mean?" he grumbled hoarsely.

"You were once brought to Brokiloén nearly dead. We cared for you, healed your wounds, but your leg was most troublesome, the bones were shattered. We had to use both conynhaela and purple living bone extensively. You must still have marks. I wondered if any joint pain still bothers you." Geralt walked on, nodding and confirming, as if in a fog, that he did indeed have purple trails in the flesh of his thigh. 

"My knee aches sometimes, especially in foul weather." Now he knew where those marks were from. "Do you know how I was injured? By whom?" Geralt noticed Yaevinn darting a quick look framed by a raised brow in his direction, apparently confused by the conversation, but the elf did not interfere, ask or comment. The Witcher did not explain. Not now, when he could find out more.

"No," Morenn answered simply, clearly not withholding a single thing. "The friend who brought you did not wish to divulge any details."

"A friend?" Geralt felt his pulse quicken in anticipation. 

"Yes," a nod, "a red-haired, cornflower-eyed sorceress." 

"Triss," he murmured in confusion. "How did you know she was my friend?"

"She said so herself." This seemingly simple information felt bewildering. Since Kaer Morhen, Triss had always been fond of showing him off and introducing him as her lover. Why would she have lied to the dryads? 

"She didn't say I was her lover?" At this he felt Yaevinn pause and roll his eyes, the elf losing patience for what must have sounded like a cheap drama conversation to him. The question took Morenn by surprise as well. 

"Indeed, she did not." After a silence, she asked, "Were you?" He shook his head in response.

"I don't think I know anymore. I lost my memory," he added for Yaevinn, without checking if the elf was looking. He found out he was listening though.

"Oh," the elf stumbled only momentarily, "I offer my commiserations. It is good that you are working on recovering it, as I see." Geralt nodded silently. He turned his head at the whooshing sound of a loosed arrow, quickly followed by several more. He reached for his sword, but Morenn softly whispered "No need" and continued shooting, until a bloedzuiger, with multiple arrows protruding from its head and chest, finally exploded in a slimy puddle, to the druid's gasp. It was remarkable the dryad managed to take it down on her own, she clearly knew the right places and the right distance to hit it, as well as the amount of necessary damage.

"You won't be able to retrieve those arrows," Geralt said, foregoing the praise, only his intonation showing he was quite impressed. 

"I have enough for the Salamandra," the woman shrugged. "I'll make more to return to Dhu'vaerne later." The she-elf's name scraped at Geralt's calm resolve. Where was she now? How would her mission go? He was still unsure he should have let her go. On the other hand, he doubted she was a kind of woman easy to forbid. And he did not feel himself a kind of man to try to forbid something to a woman. He was growing to think he believed in everybody's freedom to make their own choices. "Speaking of female archers and regaining memory," Morenn's voice brought him back from his thoughts, "do you have any news of Milva?" 

"Milva?" Geralt tasted the name which seemed like any other, meaning that, for probably a hundredth time, despite all expectation, it brought no memory of the person it belonged to. "No. Who is she?" The dryad sighed almost imperceptibly, hiding her disappointment well behind the calm in her level voice. 

"A human girl. Besides that she bears some curious similarity to Dhu'vaerne. An exceptional archer, she is one of very few non-dryads who were accepted in Brokiloén, even befriended by us. My mother grew quite fond of her in fact. She even was, like Dhu'vaerne, allowed to poach in the Great Forest." For some reason, Geralt disliked Morenn bringing up yet another woman from his past life, whoever she was, whatever their connection had been, and especially her comparison with Dhu'vaerne. As if to spite him, the dryad continued. "And just like Dhu'vaerne, Milva helped you. That's the last we know of her, that she left Brokiloén in your company - yours and that bard friend's of yours." Dandelion. The troubadour must have indeed shared a lot of his travels, just like he had said. And that meant that he knew a lot more about the Witcher than he had told him. He should probably talk more to him. If only he knew the exact questions to ask, to get the facts instead of the useless flowery metaphors Dandelion was fond of using when giving answers. 

"I knew Milva," Yaevinn uttered sombrely, "Sor'ca, we called her. She helped lead the wounded Scoia'tael into Brokilon. She was a brave girl."

"Was?" Morenn squinted her eyes at the elf somewhat contemptuously, as if she did not wish to accept what Yaevinn clearly meant to say, as if she truly cared about that human girl.

"I heard the rumours... that she has died. Although I do not know any details, or if it is even true," the elf added in a voice Geralt heard him use for the first time: it sounded almost apologetic. "I regret not knowing more, but in any case, she has done the Scoia'tael a great service. We shall always be grateful to her, and we shall remember. By the way," Yaevinn's voice changed yet again, this time from grave to openly curious, "have you any knowledge of Dhu'vaerne's connection to the Scoia'tael? Or rather, her intent in this regard? For I am certain I would have known had she been part of the resistance. I believe she would make a fine addition by joining our rightful fight."

"Can't help you there," Geralt nearly barked. He was mad at these people for discussing Dhu'vaerne in her absence, speaking as if laying claim on her in one way or another; he was also mad at himself for being uncertain about her plans. Yes, he knew she had come to these swamps exactly to find Yaevinn and judge for herself if she wanted to join his commando, but now, he did not know if anything had changed. Something had changed between them, but had it altered her intent, her aim? A part of him was certain it had not, and whatever was to occur between them when she returned from Vizima would only be a moment of distraction before she went her own way. He did not like that idea. But neither did he know what he wanted or expected from her. "You better ask her yourself," he rasped, without looking Yaevinn in the eyes. He did notice, however, the small smile that appeared on the elf's lips.

"By all means. I shall do so gladly." Geralt did not like the elven commander's tone, and he was about to let it be known, when Yaevinn lifted his hand and gave a sign for all to move more quietly. "We are approaching." 

They reached a collapsed tower, believed by the locals to be once destroyed by the gods, now a half-sunken irregular heap nearly claimed by the bog. No part of the structure provided any possible use besides that of a barrier. Behind it, they could hear voices: the low murmur of several people in the background, and the shrill yells of an overseer ordering his helpers to beat up the brickmakers who refused to cooperate. Geralt waited for Keaghan to approach, all four exchanged a focused glance and nodded. It was clear the people were held there against their will and forced to assist the bandits' operation.

"We're going in," Geralt stated, having used his Witcher senses to assess the situation. 

The Witcher and the Scoia'tael commander quietly crept around the ruins of the tower, while the druid and the dryad found and squeezed into places behind the collapsed tower's roof, from which they could both cover their companions and attack their foes. Geralt could still hear the overseer's yelled commands and grumbling replies of his assistants to their left, but he could see a single Salamander standing to the right. He was alone, but he was out in the open where the Witcher would be noticed, alarming the whole gang, the number of members of which they still did not know. Morenn solved the problem before it really developed into one: an arrow pierced through the bandit's naked back, going through his heart and killing him instantly. The disturbing thunk of the arrowhead meeting unprotected flesh was dulled by the thud of the falling body. Again, like back in Kaer Morhen when he had first seen them, and later in the outskirts of Vizima and in the town itself, Geralt wondered at the weird choice of garb the bandits made. All wore nothing but cowls and wide pants, demonstrating their mostly brawny and tall bodies, which were nowhere near good enough protection against any pointed metal at all. 

Yaevinn had moved ahead, paying no attention to Morenn's first kill, and in a moment, he leapt on a man, slightly taller than himself, who had not been surprised enough not to grab the morning star he had lying at his feet. The spiked club whooshed in an arc as Yaevinn dodged, without even trying to deflect the blow, and took the tiny gap of opportunity to strike while the bandit was slightly off balance. The twin scimitars cut through flesh with ease, one opening the Salamander's chest, and the other taking his arm clean off, the club falling into the mud. Geralt heard the sounds of more arrows loosed, and saw Yaevinn kick the falling man in the face in an impressive jump, to stop him from shrieking. He almost succeeded, for the bubbly sounds coming out from the mouth sputtering blood, were not heard by other bandits. But they were seen. 

It was one man only, returning from the bushes, tying his pants, slow and relaxed, when he saw his dead companion and an elf armed with two swords painted with blood. He yelled. Yelled, and started running seemingly away, to get his weapon, Geralt realised. He was not to grab his axe as the Witcher reached him first, pushing the man bending down to the ground with his shoulder. The bandit fell, but rolled immediately away, on his back. It did not save him, only gave him a chance to see the Witcher's yellow eyes and his bared teeth in a growl as the steel blade held in both hands plunged into the bandit's chest. Ridding the sword of excessive blood with a flick of his wrist, the Witcher moved on, darting towards the site where Yaevinn was engaged in fighting two opponents at once. He noticed three more rushing to their aid, two lackeys dressed in their usual garb, and one wearing the armour of an assassin. That one had to be the overseer. 

Morenn's arrow stopped one of the lackeys in his path, and in his life, while Keaghan provided his apparently first actual help in this fight, sending scattered lightning strikes, which hit more of the bandits, weakening, although not killing any. Geralt wanted to go for the overseer, cut off the head of the monstrous creature this gang was, but he knew the others would persevere in fighting no matter what. So he edged closer to Yaevinn, who was being nearly surrounded. Pirouetting to swipe and cut at two Salamanders at the same time, he saw the elf striking the final blows to two others. Now, sidestepping to avoid the charge and falling onto the two men whirling his sword, Geralt caught the momentum and just the right angle to separate the head of one from his neck. The Witcher turned his face away from the spray of blood. There was only one lackey and the overseer left to deal with. He went straight for the assassin, his face half- hidden by a scarf, the only part of his arm left uncovered demonstrating the lizard tattoo, the symbol of the Salamandra. 

The overseer was a good swordsman, although no match for Geralt, even with his illegal sword, each of its double blades serrated. It was a nasty weapon though, and where the Witcher would otherwise choose to take a shallow cut to gain a better chance for his own strike, here he made sure to evade or fend off the attacks. The leader of this small Salamandra cell was tiring quicker than himself, failing to carve into flesh with his ugly weapon. He blocked Geralt's blow, metal scraping unpleasantly, the Witcher's blade getting caught in the serrations, but staggered and, disengaging for an instant, he darted a look behind his back. It only lasted for a heartbeat, but he must have seen that he was alone. He must have seen an austere face of a black-haired elf, gripping the hilt of one of his swords almost nonchalantly; the breathtaking dryad now standing atop the roof of the collapsed tower, the bow taught in her hands. He hardly saw the druid who had rushed to help the captives, the terrified brickmakers huddled together, healing those who were hurt and calming those who were in shock. The Witcher could not know what the bandit saw, but Geralt noticed a flicker of panic in the slits of his eyes above the red scarf, at the sound of an arrow piercing the ground a palm's width from him. The arrow shot decidedly to miss, to distract. The overseer grabbed the Witcher's blade shoved into his stomach, adding the blood from his fingers to that already gushing from the wound in his belly. Panting, Geralt pushed the body with his foot to wrench his sword out.

"Where are the others? Who's your boss?" he growled the questions menacingly, but the dying bandit only made a gurgling sound in response. 

Geralt cursed, wiping his blade over the dead man's trousers, lifted his head, and nodded to Yaevinn, who now stood with his arms crossed, calm and not intending to deal with the released prisoners in any manner, but nodded back with obvious respect. Morenn even added a small smile to her nod as she climbed down gracefully and headed for the arrows she clearly knew exactly where to pick up. He approached Keaghan, who was now the busiest of them all. The druid was in the middle of healing one of the brickmaker's back covered with fresh welts - he must have been lashed for refusing to do what the Salamandra demanded. 

"Most of them are alright, physically at least," Keaghan said catching Geralt's gaze. The man who was being treated turned his head, wincing.

"Master Witcher, sir, thank you. Thank you all for saving us, good sirs. A-a-and lady," he swallowed hard and stammered at the sight of Morenn as she stepped nearer, the captivating swell of her breasts made more prominent by the motion of her arm storing the quiver behind her back. The Witcher inclined his head.

"You aren't all who were taken by the bandits, right? Do you know anything about the Salamandra that could help us free the others?"

"Yes, there's another group hiding in the cave near the old logging area," the man provided readily. 

"I know where it is," Yaevinn nodded in response to Geralt's silent question.

"They forced us to gather herbs, make fisstech," the brickmaker continued, without being asked, without looking at anyone.

"I know," Geralt put his hand on the man's shoulder. The latter shuddered slightly. "I'm sorry. You're safe now. Do you need help finding your way to the village?" 

"No," the man replied, although clearly uncertain. "We'll manage. We'll gather some clubs off the dead ones, for protection, just in case. No," his confidence grew, "no, you go help others. We'll be fine. May you never suffer drought," he finished with a blessing. 

As Keaghan was checking for the last time if everyone else was in need of healing, Geralt searched for any documents on the Salamanders' bodies and the others got ready to leave, the chief brickmaker shouted, remembering something at the last moment.

"Oh! Master Witcher! Their boss's name is Roland Bleinheim. He's an evil man. Kill him." The uttered request was at odds with the brickmaker's kind round face. The Witcher looked him long in the eyes, and seeing the confirmation there, nodded before turning to leave. 

"Are you still following me in this?" Geralt asked as soon as the company was all back together. 

"Come on, Vatt'ghern, you're better than this," the dryad snorted, crossing her arms under her breasts, pushing them up in the process.

"Better than what?"

"Better than asking meaningless questions, and looking for extra confirmation where none is needed." 

"Indeed, we promised our assistance until all of the brickmakers are freed. Nothing has warranted the change of that promise," the elf stated in confirmation. "Besides," he continued with a haughty smirk, "it is I who leads the way, and you are the one who follows, if you want to be precise." He did not want to be precise. He wanted this to be over, and right now he also wanted to punch Yaevinn. With a sigh of annoyance he did not try to conceal, the Witcher turned to Keaghan, who thread his fingers through his beard and shrugged,

"The others might need healing, too." 

And thus they went on, this time rearranging their order so that Geralt was the one behind. He only caught bits of the conversation between his three companions, not because they were hard to hear, but due to his own thoughts being too loud. He thought of the fight they had just had, of the one that was to follow, and of Dhu'vaerne. He wondered if it would have been different had she been there. He was certain she would not make a less efficient ally in any possible way, but he realised that in his imagination, her being in that battle made him look around for her, made him worry. The fact that she was more than capable mattered little. He would worry. And he did, even now. She was probably already in Vizima, which was not the best place for a lone she-elf to be. He ground his teeth. _She'll be fine. Dhu'vaerne will deliver Yaevinn's letter successfully and return soon. Return to him,_ he though. _Dhu'vaerne,_ he thought, _is a pretty name. I should tell her. That it's not just semantically interesting,_ he smirked. And then he felt his face transform with a full-on smile as he remembered the kid who had come from Vaska. Lady Dhuvy, he had called her. 

As they padded on along the path, he rolled her name on his tongue, this way and that, trying to figure out what other variations of it, nicknames and pet names she had been called in her life. He decided he wanted to find the one name only he would use, something only two of them would share. He dismissed Dhu as Black was the most probable nickname she had ever had, and Invaerne, for calling her Spring seemed like something Dandelion would do. Dhuvy was out of the question for obvious reasons. He paused at Vaerna, trying it on his tongue. It was not bad, but... He did not know himself what he expected. 

"The old logging site is just a few minutes away," Yaevinn warned in a whisper. Geralt nodded absent-mindedly, his lips moving without making any sound. "Gwynbleidd," the elf urged, a hint of concern mixed with irritation in his voice.

"Yes, I heard. I'm ready," he said, barely able to suppress a smile. He had found it, the right name. From now on, for him, that beautiful and deadly blue-eyed archer would be Vae.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech
> 
> Vatt'ghern - Witcher  
> sor'ca - little sister


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a big thank-you hug to all the wonderful readers of this fic. I hope you continue to enjoy the way it is going. We are getting a lot more in-game content in current chapters, but a lot of events are not going to be canon.   
> Feel free to let me know what you think, I greatly appreciate all feedback! <3

The ferry was a punt of sorts. The ferryman, in his usual bright green pants and the tight cap which made him look suspicious, assumed she had more beggartick to sell when she had showed up at the landing. Dhu'vaerne did in fact have some of the sought-after herb, and the thought of exchanging it for the fare briefly crossed her mind, but she figured she might make a better trade for it in Vizima. So the ferryman took her five orens, shrugged his shoulders, and kept throwing side looks at her as he pushed his pole against the riverbed to slowly propel the boat.

He eyed the sack she was carrying, to which she had tied two ropes to be able to strap it on her back, but, probably minding her connection to the Witcher, refrained from asking about the reasons for her visit into Temeria's capital. It would be her first, although she was no stranger to towns and did not expect to be bewildered by its labyrinthine streets and noisy crowds. Dhu'vaerne busied herself with munching on some dried meat while devising her plan of action and taking in the mostly unchanging scenery. All until they made a turn through the thick reeds, and she saw the approaching round towers bursting through the tall stone walls, looking grim and forbidding. 

"Where would I be most likely to find a dwarf in Vizima?" The ferryman looked nonplussed at her sudden question, the only one she had uttered through the whole journey. In all fairness, she could have phrased it better.

"Eeh, do you mean any one dwarf?" 

She wondered if he was some kind of stupid, or had simply seen things in his life which validated his question.

"I will be looking for quite specific dwarves. I just wondered if there was a place they were likely to be. Like a nonhuman district or something of the sort?"

"Oh! Yeah, sure, there's that," his enthusiasm was likely the sign of relief that she did not possess some kind of dwarf fetish. "Little Mahakam. It's not far from the gates. There, and the Slums: all sorts hang out in the Hairy Bear."

"Thank you," she barely suppressed a sigh, reacting to both Geralt not exaggerating about that inn, and to the ferryman apparently referring to dwarves and other nonhumans as "all sorts".

"The Dike," the man announced. "There you go. Up and to the right," he gestured unprompted. She thanked him again and nimbly stepped off the punt.

The dike was not particularly crowded but gave the impression of bursting with activity: workers unloading large crates; a fat merchant yelling at one of the dockhands; a couple of dogs snooping for scraps around the fishermen busying with their nets; and as she walked up the wooden walkway leading towards the gates, even a strumpet showing off her goods, simultaneously offering compliments to Dhu'vaerne, apparently seeing her becoming a client as a viable possibility. She only smiled and winked at the human girl, before pulling her hood low over her brilliant blue eyes, Geralt's letter of safe conduct in her hand.

She could not tell if it was a typical afternoon in Vizima, but already the first couple of streets she walked looked busy. Cloaked, her hood hiding her pointy ears, she did not seem to attract any special attention, except for a wolf whistle and a lewd comment from two drunks on the corner she politely ignored.

The she-elf had not made up her mind on which dwarf to seek first, but decided to reconnoitre the whole Temple Quarter, just in case she needed to be quick finding her way around it. Or out of it. The street leading from the gate took a bend, and from there she saw the unmistakable Slums: the district located on a level below the street she stood on, where the number of beggars, thugs and "ladies" at least doubled at first sight. She chose to leave it for later and followed a half-elf instead, who brought her to Little Mahakam. The nonhuman district looked destitute: miserable, often dressed in tatters elves shuffled between the houses, the pride and confidence in their bearing all but gone. Dhu'vaerne felt like turning away, allowing both them and herself to keep some dignity by not looking and not being looked at. She ground her teeth at seeing the state her people lived in, taking it as some proof of the necessity of the Scoia'tael's rebellious struggle. 

There were dwarves around in abundance, too, and she made sure to listen and watch, but did not find any hint of either Golan Vivaldi or Zoltan Chivay. Not that she expected one of them to have a plaque with his name on his house and the other to walk around announcing his name. Taking stock of her surroundings, she finally found herself in the Market Street. A few merchants and peddlers were loudly attracting customers, dealing in all sorts of goods. She chose to speak to the herbalist - a human woman, who had a modest choice of wares herself, but offered a good price for her beggartick. Better than the ferryman's, Dhu'vaerne smirked to herself smugly.

"Are you by any chance familiar with Golan Vivaldi?" She decided there was no harm in asking.

"The dwarf who used to have a bank. Heard, seen, not acquainted. Often shops here, but haven't seen him today," the woman shrugged. Dhu'vaerne nodded, wondering what was a better indicator of the herbalist's will to speak - the readiness or the brevity of her answer. She persevered.

" _Had_ a bank, you say?"

"Yeah. New here, aren't you?" She did not wait for Dhu'vaerne to respond. "He used to have a house in the Trade Quarter, where the Vivaldi bank is. Now he's gone bankrupt and lives in squalor here in the nonhuman district."

"The bank's gone bankrupt?"

"Nope. Bank's fine. Works as ever." No further explanation was offered, so the she-elf thanked the herbalist and continued on her way, firmly deciding to find out more about this positively dodgy story.

Circling a large building she came across an open gate to a garden surrounding it, and stepped through. From the outside the place looked like a temple, but she would expect more people coming and going if it were so. Her first careful step in brought with it the sounds of heavy coughing and moaning of the sick and hurried shuffling of the nurses - a hospital. Which however had a three-sided statue of Melitele in its centre with candles burning at the feet of the young girl, the woman, and the old crone. Dhu'vaerne was not wrong about the building's original purpose.

She decided to take a closer look at the statue, out of curiosity rather than to worship. Melitele was not sacred for elves, who believed in Dana Méadbh, the Eternal One, although humans, who so often jumped to conclusions in their search of simple explanations and trivial truths, believed the two were one and the same. How could they know, after all? How could one explain all that Dana Méadbh was the embodiment of, when they did not understand the endless nuances of Elder Speech, and when the goddess herself communicated telepathically?

Walking around, she gazed at the skilfully carved in stone gentle neck and arms of the virgin, the rounded belly of the mother, the drooping eyes of the crone. As one of the Aen Seidhe she could not call the sculptor's work exquisite: even though she had not seen much elven architecture or sculpture, by some unexplained inborn sense of artistic beauty and value she knew that much more sophisticated and subtle art was possible to create. She liked the Melitele statue nonetheless. It looked like it indeed offered comfort and solace - often all that Catriona plague victims this hospital was full of, could expect.

Dhu'vaerne was about to leave when she noticed another corridor behind the statue and heard agitated voices coming from there. She told herself she was not going to pry, only see if she could offer any immediate help, but the words she made out plastered her to the wall, still, quiet, almost invisible.

"So go ask that busty sorceress he left me for then! I can't believe he thought she'd take better care of Alvin! How does she even have time for the boy with all the taking care of her hair and manicure and whatever other nonsense sorceresses busy themselves with?" She woman's voice betrayed her hurt and her fury, but Dhu'vaerne focused on the facts. Alvin? Sorceress? Could this woman be the one Geralt told her about? What was her name?

"Look, Shani, I know it ended badly between you and Geralt, and I'm sorry - I always liked you - but it's about something else now. He's missing, no one seems to know where he is. Not even Triss," a pleasantly gritty male voice explained calmly.

"Not even Triss," the woman snorted. "I don't care, Zoltan. I told Geralt I never want to see him again, and he's at least done me the courtesy of fulfilling my wish so far. I can't help you." By the sound her boots made the woman stormed off, leaving none other than Zoltan to sigh and curse softly in solitude. It was great luck for Dhu'vaerne to find him like this, but an awkward set-up for the first meeting, so she swiftly retired behind the statue again to follow the dwarf outside and pick a better opportunity for an introduction. 

"Hello, Zoltan," she waited for him at the corner of the last house on a narrow street, which she already knew led back to the main one and towards the Slums. "You don't know me, but we can help each other," she offered with an amiable smile. The stocky dwarf with an impressive mohawk and dark brown beard looked her up (literally, for he was quite shorter than her) and down, showing no surprise at the sudden address, tucked his fists to his hips and grinned, his expression turning from gruff to downright jovial.

"I sure can think of a few ways we can do that, dove."

"Good to know you and Geralt have that in common," she deadpanned, suppressing a grin at the drop of his jaw. "And drop the 'dove', would you?"

"Aye," he nodded, raised enquiring eyebrows and kept looking at her intently, as if he would find Geralt just by doing that.

"I'm Dhu'vaerne, a friend of Geralt's. Can we talk somewhere more private?" 

"Aye," he repeated, "my pal Vivaldi's house." 

"It's funny you should say that," she grinned in earnest at the amount of favourable coincidences she had met with, secretly hoping her luck was not about to run out dramatically and land her in a pile of steaming bear shit. 

***

She warmed to Zoltan from the start: owing to the fact that he agreed to help Geralt - and by extension her - before she even finished telling him what kind of help she needed; because she learnt Vivaldi was not only letting Zoltan stay in his house but had entrusted him with a key; since the scar across his nose and left eyebrow could only have been earned in battle; because of his apparent ability to see irony in most things; and in no small part, due to his stunning mohawk. To her sincere joy, the dwarf was as affable towards her. 

After Dhu'vaerne had explained why she needed to see Vivaldi - who was currently at a location unknown to Zoltan - the dwarf asked about Geralt and produced a bottle of Mahakam spirit "to help them get the details right". The conversation flowed as smoothly as the warming liquid down their throats, and by the time they saw the bottom of the bottle both were convinced they had found a new friend in each other.

"So," Dhu'vaerne started tipsily, "I have two important questions for you." The dwarf nodded seriously. "First, where's the bloede toilet?" Zoltan slammed his palm on the table, laughing, and pointed to the door.

Back and refreshed, Dhu'vaerne sighed, smiling contentedly.

"What's the second?" Zoltan smirked.

"Who does your hair?"

"Now that's serious talk, girl," he leaned over the table, his face close to hers. "And serious business. That's why I do it meself."

"Even at the back?"

"Mhm. All of it." Dhu'vaerne's respect and admiration for the dwarf grew immensely.

"Will you do me?" Both shared a slightly stupefied look for a second, but moved on to more important things at hand, as the she-elf quickly untied the bandanna around her head.

Zoltan walked around her as she sat on a chair and clicked his tongue. Knowing exactly what it meant Dhu'vaerne drew her legs closer together, making herself smaller in shame.

"No worries, girl, we'll fix it in a jiffy," his heavy hand patted her gently on the shoulder. "We've a wee problem though: I've no razorblade."

"Will this do?" she challenged with a smirk, unsheathing one of her perfectly sharp daggers.

"Aye," he grinned back, "it'll do nicely."

As the best of barbers were wont to do, Zoltan provided professional precision combined with pleasant talk for the duration of the haircut.

"That's a great cut, Dhu'vaerne. Worth the trouble of keeping. Shame you have to hide your ears these days together with this beauty. Them bloody racists."

"Are you with the Scoia'tael?" She asked directly, feeling there was no need to beat around the bush. The dwarves who fought in the guerrilla forces typically wore their beards in plaits, but Zoltan's was cut too short to be braided, so his affiliations were impossible to guess from his looks. She wondered if it was done on purpose.

"No. I've had my share of fighting. But living here, I can understand their cause. I see the nonhumans struggle every day. I was attacked by some racists bums not long ago meself. Not that they survived to tell the tale." From him it did not sound like bragging, a mere stating of facts. "You?"

"Neither. Not yet anyway. I'm... considering. Want to get to know Yaevinn better first." Standing in front of her now, shaving the final, most crucial part, Zoltan nodded in understanding.

"Dhu'vaerne, are you and Geralt friends or... friends?"

"You mean?" she teased. She dared not laugh not to move her head.

"Ploughing hell, ye ken well what I'm talkin' about. Are ye tumbling?" Apparently, he slipped into a thicker dwarven brogue when confronted with a sensitive topic.

"Not yet," she answered with a smile, amused both at his question and her feeling compelled to tell the truth.

"Whadda ye waiting for?" he smirked, "Did he ask ye to bring him a ruby ring and a red shawl first?"

"Something like that." Zoltan wiped her dagger on the kitchen cloth hanging from his shoulder indicating he was done and she could finally giggle. "He asked me to sell some drowner brains for him," she nodded at the sack propped by the front door, and both burst out laughing.

"What a way to woo a lady. I never could understand how he managed to get so many beauties." Zoltan caught himself at saying too much to the wrong person and coughed nervously, apologising.

"Don't worry," Dhu'vaerne placed her hand on his arm, smiling. "He's told me. What he remembers, that is. Which isn't that much."

"Come on. Go get a look at yerself. Golan has a vanity somewhere in that room," he shoved her gently off the chair.

She grabbed the round mirror the size of a big plate mounted on a stand which looked nothing less than a testament to dwarven engineering, and swiped it in a circle around the left side of her head, now cleanly shaven, perfectly following the curved line which separated it from longer hair. Zoltan had a steady hand even after a bottle of Mahakaman. Dhu'vaerne distanced and lowered the mirror so that not only herself but also Zoltan, whose head came up to her shoulders, was reflected in it.

"Looks great on you, girl. Not that I'm praising me own skills."

"I love it," she shook her head, "thank you." She decided the two of them looked what humans would call quite badass with their complicatedly shaven haircuts. "Why do you trim your beard?" In another situation, with another person, she would have asked first if she could ask them a question, then if she could ask them about their beard. She felt with Zoltan she could simply ask. "I mean I can see you've been around - and you obviously haven't been sitting on a porch all these years. I thought dwarves value the length of their beard since there's that... I don't know - rule? tradition? - that dwarves reach maturity when their beard reaches their waist. I've never seen a dwarf your age with a short beard. And I've seen quite a few." She hoped he would sense her sincere fascination and would not take offence.

"The tradition's true enough," he shrugged. "I just don't give a shite about it, to be honest. A long beard is a bastard when you're swinging an axe. And if anyone wonders about my maturity I'm happy to oblige their curiosity."

"Zoltan," she announced pompously, still looking at them both in the mirror, "I like you."

The moment they were posing in front of the mirror and laughing was when the owner of the house and the ex-owner of the Vivaldi bank chose to return home. Golan Vivaldi had a different opinion regarding beards, for his grey one stretched all the way down to his knees.

On explaining the reason for her being in his house, Dhu'vaerne inadvertently learnt not only Vivaldi's story, but the contents of Yaevinn's letter as well.

"It's always the same," the older dwarf scoffed, having read a few lines. "Everybody always wants money. But he isn't getting it," he threw a disapproving look at Dhu'vaerne, who decided not to repeat she was a mere messenger in this case. "Even if I had any."

"What happened to your bank?" she risked asking.

"Humans happened. A hostile takeover, they call it. I say thievery and banditry in broad daylight, that's what it was."

"You mean they just... took it? Just like that, and nobody did anything?" She received another scoff before the explanation.

"Who would want to oppose humans in support of one dwarf?"

"The Scoia'tael?" she asked tentatively, unsure if she believed it herself that was what the guerrilla warriors would do, but hoping that it was. She needed to believe there was a desire to help all nonhumans in dire straits behind the Scoia'tael's actions, not just the wish to annihilate as many humans as possible. She wanted to believe that, for her own sake, and for her brother's.

"The Scoia'tael here have their own agenda. Which is mostly playing the game of who kills more humans. They have no time for protecting. Or no will. I sometimes wonder if they're any better than ploughing humans." Dhu'vaerne understood the reasons behind Golan's bitterness: having a business that had been built by generations of your ancestors simply taken from you, being thrown into poverty and disgrace was not a situation to make one big on optimism. But she hoped with all her heart that the dwarf was wrong about the Scoia'tael. She decided she would do her best to change people's perception of the guerrillas, by persuading the Scoia'tael their image in the eyes of the nonhumans meant how much support they would get in their struggle. She still did not clear it with herself if that meant she was going to join them. But if she did, she would do it for a better reason than her brother's hatred of humans.

"Can I help you in any way? Maybe not return your bank, but... is there anything you need? Wait. _Is_ there a way for you to recover the bank?"

"Huh! If I had a small army, maybe. The humans have all the papers that prove my ownership, they won't part with them willingly."

"You think those papers still exist? Why wouldn't they just burn them?"

"They wouldn't," Golan shook his head. "They need a reliable source to forge my signature, to get access to the transactions and correspondence codes. It's all there."

"I won't promise anything," Dhu'vaerne started, "but I'll do my best to help you get the bank back. With or without the Scoia'tael's help. Tell me more about those documents," she moved her chair closer and gave her full attention to the descriptions of the files, their possible location within the bank, as well as its general layout Golan sketched on a piece of parchment. That would be a dangerous undertaking, but she was sure it was possible to succeed. Not alone, so she would need to secure some allies' assistance. Although the first one, in the face of Zoltan, declared himself at her disposal right there, Vivaldi was more than sceptical, and only promised her to have his response for Yaevinn by noon the next day.

The time Dhu'vaerne had on her hands was plenty enough to seek out the contract givers to collect Geralt's pay: two in the Temple Quarter, whom Zoltan suggested he would take care of, and one more Dhu'vaerne chose to deal with herself as he was stationed in the Trade Quarter she had not yet visited. They agreed to reconvene at the Hairy Bear where she was to spend the night.

***

The Trade Quarter differed significantly from its neighbour: full of flowerbeds, pretty houses, jesters and musicians on street corners, and elegantly dressed people, it gave the impression everything was well there. Despite the looks though, the friendliness was only reserved or the wealthy and the noble, and she, as any being of lower social status, and especially as a nonhuman, did not feel welcome there. 

She had made subtle enquiries about the location of Triss Merigold's house. Slightly taken aback by the fact she knew about her at all, Zoltan, however commented that he understood her curiosity and was not the one to judge. She had tried to correct him that it was because of Geralt worrying about Alvin that she wanted to look around her house, but having said that, she had admitted she was indeed curious to catch a glimpse of the sorceress. The woman Geralt used to be with, the one he escaped from, the one... she was about to replace? Was that it? She shook her head in annoyance at her uncalled-for sudden insecurity. 

Having successfully exchanged the echinops rootstocks for coin, John Natalis Square was where Dhu'vaerne found herself among the crowd of onlookers appreciating the street entertainment. The place where four roads converged bustled with activity, making it easy to sneak around unnoticed. Dhu'vaerne took her time listening to the minstrel, whose beautiful voice reconciled her with his weak poetry; and enjoyed the jester's tricks, without trying to figure out how he did them. It was a time well spent. And even better was the fact that after a few couplets and a few tricks, she noticed a red-haired woman scantily dressed under her cloak emerging from the sorceress' house. Having darted a quick look around, the woman pulled her hood up and walked away purposefully - it would have been hurriedly if it were physically possible to hurry wearing such heels. Triss Merigold, for it had to be her by all descriptions, left her house alone.

Although the houses were packed in tight rows, it did not take Dhu'vaerne long to figure out how to get to the back door. And then, despite all advisable precaution, she approached the main entrance, turned the handle confidently, and, to her only partial astonishment, opened the door with no difficulty whatsoever. She had not exactly planned the rest through further than trying to find Alvin and possibly speak to him. How he would react to a strange person, a she-elf, she could not know, but she relied on her skills of being good with kids. All those years of looking after the others' little ones had to come in handy. 

A blond, barefoot boy did not require to be found: he simply stared at her with impossibly intense, unblinking eyes, from the corner where he sat cross-legged as she snuck her way around the creaky floorboards. He startled her, eliciting a mute gasp from her lips. 

"Hi. Are you Alvin? I'm looking for him to say hello from Geralt," she quickly found her bearings and asked, smiling gently, stopping where she was not to spook him. The child did not look afraid, only mistrustful, until he heard the Witcher's name. 

"Is he coming back soon?" his face lit up with happiness and genuine affection, which soon turned into a demanding impertinence of a spoilt child. "I want him to come back!" he smacked his small palm on the floor. 

"Of course you do. But right now he is on a mission, and he needs to complete it, like an honourable and brave man that he is. Don't you think he is like that?" Dhu'vaerne approached slowly and sat on the floor by the boy's side. He did not move away, and nodded in response to her question. "He cares about you, and he asked me to find out how you are doing. Are you well?" The boy seemed to give the query some serious consideration, studying Dhu'vaerne's face at the same time. 

"It's alright. Triss teaches me magic, she says I need to learn to control my powers, but slowly and carefully. It's boring. And she doesn't give me any sweets. And won't let me have a dog. _You would_ let me have a dog." Although he was a child complaining, there was no pouting, his tone remained serious and calm as he merely stated the facts, his eyes staring into hers utterly focused. "Like the one you had together with your brother. Brown, with long ears. He still remembers it." 

Dhu'vaerne felt like not only words, but the gift of speech itself had left her. She had not told anyone about her brother, let alone their dog - not even Geralt yet - so how could this boy be speaking about him? Her mind was racing, her pulse a deafening rhythm in her ears. A source. Geralt had mentioned Alvin was a source, a child with incredible magical power. 

"He is alive then?" she whispered. The boy nodded gravely.

"He has many scars. The loss of that dog is only one of them." She swallowed the lump in her throat. This strange boy had just brought her a little closer to her goal of finding her brother after so many years. She knew it could change any day, she knew he led a dangerous life belonging to the Scoia'tael resistance, but today, he was still alive. And he remembered their dog. The only one they had ever had, given to them by their parents as a hunting companion and a joint responsibility. It had not been the best of ideas to give young elflings a puppy. It lived and aged and died within a tiny fraction of their childhood. But as well as bad, it had been a wonderful idea. It had taught them that love was nothing without care, without taking responsibility for the one you love. She took in a ragged breath. 

"He remembers you, too."

Dhu'vaerne's way of fighting the tears was by suddenly embracing the boy, who unexpectedly did not resist and even hugged her back as she ran her hands along his small back, pressing her cheek onto his coarse blonde hair, as if it was him who needed comforting. Maybe he did, too. As soon as she disentangled from him, she rummaged in her pack and produced a half-palm-sized section of a honeycomb wrapped in some paper. 

"Here. Make sure you wash your fingers clean and don't tell Triss," she winked at his delighted grin, already marked with some wax stains as he had done a quick job of getting his teeth into the combined bliss of the sweetness and chewiness. 

Hours later, she lay on her back on a basic straw mattress in the room Geralt had paid the innkeeper to hold for him. She kept track of two flies circling the ceiling, and wiped her wet temples from time to time. It had been a good day, she thought. And that brought memories of some of the worst days in her life: the day when her both parents had died, and the next one, when her older brother, her only remaining family, had left. She knew exactly how many years they had not seen each other, but she did not want to think about that now. She thought about the day she would see him again, uncertain if that would be a happy or a tragic one. And then she thought about something so much more tangible, someone so much closer. 

She turned on her side and pulled Geralt's jerkin she had found in the chest, over her shoulder. It was heavy, with studs on treated leather, and it smelt just like him. She no longer had any doubts as to what she was going to do when she saw the Witcher again. 

Soon.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason this fic is now rated "Explicit". Hope you enjoy. :) 
> 
> A big thanks to all the wonderful readers, please do let me know what you think. <3

Despite the brevity of her absence, Dhu'vaerne felt eager to return to the Swamps. 

The nearly three days in Vizima had proved fruitful in many ways: she had made acquaintance of the city itself, but also of some of its inhabitants, and their stories, and troubles. She had seen non-humans not only live in appalling conditions - there were enough humans who fared no better - but she had witnessed the distrust, the scorn, and even outright hatred based on purely racial differences that she was unaccustomed to. Although she told herself she had not yet made the decision, her resolve to become a part of the force meant change the current miserable and degrading state of non-humans, grew each day. At times even faster: with each falsely accused dwarf, each halfling family robbed or thrown out of their home, each abused she-elf and her beaten up husband. Dhu'vaerne was uncertain the Scoia'tael was the answer, but she had not yet come up with a different solution. 

The urge to act spurred her on: now that her goals had become clearer, they started to slowly crystallise into plans, and seem more achievable. She knew now that her brother was alive; she realised she could not turn a blind eye to the plight of the non-humans; and she was certain about Gwynbleidd. It was unnecessary to define her desire and her care for the Witcher in a more precise manner, it was enough to want him and know that he wanted her in return. 

On the journey back, it suited her that the Ferryman was disinclined to chat, focused on his own - apparently gloomy - thoughts. It gave Dhu'vaerne time to decide where to head first. It was plain enough she longed to see Geralt, but her sense of duty argued for the necessity of finishing business first. Especially when the said business was unlikely to be concluded as yet, for she knew Yaevinn would not be pleased with the response she was carrying. She planned an attempt at persuading him to join her in returning Vivaldi's bank to its rightful owner. 

The argument which tipped the scales in favour of meeting Yaevinn first was her acute sense of being incomplete without her bow. She headed towards the Druids’ Grove to find Morenn before speaking to the Scoia'tael commander. 

Dhu'vaerne could not know where Geralt was at that moment, and a part of her hoped she would meet him along the way, catch a glimpse of white hair among the sparse trees, or hear the dying shrieks of monsters indicating his presence. She became so absorbed in imagining the moment she would see him - his hair dropping across his face at the tilt of his head, as his muscular arm went up to sheathe his sword behind his back - she never noticed how she reached Morenn's favourite spot in the forest. 

She must have given the dryad a surprised look - confused to find someone other than Geralt - as the other woman faced her with what looked like an understanding, if only a trifle condescending smile. 

“Ceadmil, on'hierd elaine,” she greeted, gesturing for Dhu'vaerne to join her under a huge alder tree, where the dryad was reclining against the soft moss covering the exposed roots and the lower part of the tree trunk. The she-elf sat next to her, asking herself if it was going to become awkward between them now, with what Dhu'vaerne knew of Morenn's past with Geralt, and what she planned for her own future with him. The dryad dispelled her apprehension before it even gained enough force. 

“I’m glad you’ve found someone to do your hair,” Morenn’s full lips stretched in a lingering smile, “and someone to warm your bed. I am just a little jealous,” she added, running her exquisite fingers through Dhu'vaerne’s hair hanging loose, her bandanna gone, and moving on to caress her cheek. 

“Thank you,” Dhu'vaerne caught the other woman's hand with hers and intertwined their fingers. “Which one of us are you jealous of?” she smiled, part teasing, part wary.

“A little bit of both?” The dryad's deep, sincere laughter was answer enough. “I used to love him, but I don't harbour any hopes for the future. And you were like a breath of fresh air, like home, like a sweet berry you pick after a bunch of sour ones. But I am glad Gwynbleidd and you have found each other, you both deserve some happiness.” 

Their embrace was comforting, devoid of the heat of their previous encounter, as if they were only sisters and not once-lovers. 

Her bow returned to her, Dhu'vaerne learnt of the success of the operation to free the brickmakers, and shared her own plans. She knew the dryad would not follow her into the human city, but Morenn promised her full support throughout her realm. She could not help Dhu'vaerne with any news of the Witcher’s location, but explained that Yaevinn was to be found in a nonhuman camp not far from the Druids’ Grove. 

“There’s been some conflict,” she offered as the only explanation, ignorant of any details. The news was unwelcome, and made Dhu'vaerne hurry to find out more. To check who had taken part in the fight. To make sure the Witcher was all right. 

Yaevinn’s camp was well hidden, for someone who did not know how or where to look. She spotted the tall, dark-haired elf talking to the members of his commando: a rowdy dwarf, and a solemnly quiet elf with eyes which narrowed to slits the moment he noticed her - a stranger. Although an elf herself, for him she was a possible intruder. His lips moved silently, but he must have spoken aloud for Yaevinn turned to look at her, a perfectly shaped brow raising in what looked like a sign of a pleasant surprise. 

The elf strode towards her, and Dhu'vaerne noted how he managed to look simultaneously confident - walking upright - and relaxed, with his arms by his sides, apparently devoid of the need to place one on the hilt of his sword. 

“I am well pleased you return from the city unscathed.” His remark accompanied by a slight bow made for an unexpected greeting and left Dhu'vaerne lost for words for an instant. 

“I’ve fulfilled the mission,” she hesitated, debating if she should tell him she knew of its outcome, or wait until he read Vivaldi's response himself. She opted for the latter, choosing to observe him as he perused the letter she handed him. That was when he surprised her again by tucking the letter behind his belt and crossing his arms over his chest, giving her a look of appraisal and curiosity. 

“I thank you, Dhu'vaerne.” As if aware of her thoughts of bewilderment, he continued. “No matter the news you bring, I am grateful for your effort, for the task was no trifling matter for one of our people. At times it seems humans become offended by the shape of our ears alone. It is indeed a pleasure to see you not hiding yours any longer.” A tiny smile played on his lips as his eyes drifted from her ears and her hair to her face. It took effort to hold his gaze for some reason: was it for the meaning he ascribed to the absence of her bandanna, or the way his look seemed to linger on her a little longer than was necessary, Dhu'vaerne could not decide. But she felt the tingling of an approaching blush on her cheeks, and had to turn the tide by taking the initiative in the conversation to fight it off. 

“I’ve heard the liberation of the villagers was successful. Your assistance was much appreciated.” He nodded, a hint of a smile still adorning his austerely attractive features. “I know there’s been another conflict in my absence, but Morenn was unable to give me any details.” 

“Yes. We were attacked by the Order of the Flaming Rose.” His face hardened the same instant he spoke of his obvious enemies, his hands balling into fists, but soon he shifted to stand proud and tall and unbeatable again. “We triumphed with not a little help from Gwynbleidd.” 

“Were there losses?” she asked, a bit too quickly perhaps for Yaevinn not to see through her true intention.

“The Witcher is unharmed. I believe he, as most of us here, if not more so, considers a few cuts and bruises as unworthy of mention.” She failed to suppress a relieved sigh. The corners of the elf’s mouth twitched with the beginning of a smile as his green eyes bored into her, openly studying. “You have not seen him yet. I must admit I am flattered you have come to me first.” Before she had time to tell him where he could shove his arrogance, he silenced her anger with his next remark. “You possess not only impressive skill but a commendable sense of duty and responsibility. I find it quite admirable.” While Dhu'vaerne recovered, choking on her now inappropriate response, Yaevinn took the chance to press on. “Would you ever consider joining us in fighting for our goals? I am certain, you,” he paused emphatically, “would make a big difference.” He was good, Dhu'vaerne had to admit. Just as she had to admit she felt flattered. After all, what he said was the truth, even if uttered in a tone which seemed to hide another meaning behind his words. 

“I would need to learn more of you and your goals before committing to anything,” she gave a cautious little smirk.

“I shall be happy to provide my assistance in that,” he positively grinned in response, his sharp eyes twinkling with amusement, of all things. 

“In the meantime,” Dhu'vaerne joined the game with a lustrous smile, “I wonder if you would venture so far as to help me wrestle a certain dwarf’s bank from the humans’ control.” She enjoyed the effect of her suggestion on Yaevinn immensely, feeling he was no longer one step ahead of her. 

***

Geralt sheathed his silver sword, rolling his shoulder to adjust the harness and relieve the tension in his arm. He had done a considerable amount of fighting in the last couple of days, and for some unknown reason had refused to take any curatives, allowing his augmented by Witcher mutations body to take care of itself, healing any damage. The skirmish with a few graveirs had left him only mildly tired, but he was feeling restless and irritable. However long he had tried to ignore the reason behind it, there came a time he admitted to himself that he was worried about Dhu'vaerne. 

The fact that he had lately spent most of his time in the company of the Scoia'tael did not help. The Witcher returned Yaevinn's grudging respect in equal measure, but the elf's neverending flowery speeches on Geralt's own otherness which made it only natural for him to join in the fight for the rights of non-humans, filled him with scorn. It was true enough he had never really felt welcome, or even fully accepted among humans - at least from what he could remember of his past - but he had seen elves commit actions no less horrible than those of humans. The whole matter of picking a side was a huge pain for Geralt. He knew that as a Witcher, his path was meant to be that of neutrality. But he had a nagging feeling, which could only come from his heart, pulling him towards what he believed was right. So much about Witchers being devoid of emotion. 

His heart made itself known again when Yaevinn, in another attempt to sell the idea of non-humans’ resistance, told him of the endless depravities and suffering elves faced in human cities. Yaevinn’s own story was that of bitterness born out of honest attempts at living in peace with his human neighbours, which had only met with hatred and rejection. At that moment, the tales which might have left Geralt indifferent at another time, weighed down on him. Because there was someone, a she-elf, alone in an unfamiliar human city right now, trying to help others. Trying to help him. The thought of Dhu'vaerne coming to harm made him pale with anger for agreeing to let her go. Not that she would have listened had he tried to stop her… 

Geralt had spent his restless energy on Witcher work: although unpaid this time, his hands itched to kill some monsters. It had taken his mind off his worries, but he could only roam around the swamps looking for trouble - or troublemakers - so much. He cleaned the caked mud off his boots with a few hearty kicks to a dry tree stump, and headed home. “ _Home_ ”, he thought, “ _for lack of a better word_.” 

He still felt uncomfortable with the idea of home, or rather with that of making one and sharing it with someone. Although the time spent in that derelict hut with Vae had been in no way oppressive. _Vae_ , he smirked, _you better be back soon. I refuse to spend another night cleaning the place up and fixing the benches._ It had turned out to be his best option the night before, when he could not sleep, and tried hastening the passage of time by meditation and repair work. 

As their - their? the thought took him by surprise, but felt almost comforting - hut came into view, he immediately noticed something was wrong. The newly fixed shutters on a lopsided window were closed, while he clearly remembered leaving them open. True enough, such a gesture was unlikely to have come from a monster, but an ambush prepared by people would have been a good guess, especially taking into account his recent clashes with both the Salamandra and the Order of the Flaming Rose. 

The hilt of his steel sword sat comfortably in his hand as he approached from the back, employing his senses to listen to any noises from within and guess at the number of opponents he was to face. He heard no conversation, the only sounds coming from inside barely audible and hard to identify. He sensed the heat of a single person in there. It had to be her. 

All cautiousness aside, he slid the blade back in its scabbard in a smooth arc above his head, reached the door in three quick steps and opened it, soundlessly - oiling the hinges had happened to be one of his occupations the night before. 

It _was_ her. Curled on _his_ sleeping bench by the stove, wrapped in wolf pelts he had acquired, was Vae: whole, safe, and asleep. He tiptoed to her side, crouched carefully, and cursed his joints for creaking as he bent his knees. Her eyes flew open, a dagger scraping against the brick surface of the stove. The next moment it fell as she sat up, smiling radiantly, the pelts falling off her shoulders to reveal she was only wearing a thin shirt. _His_ shirt. 

He swallowed to help his suddenly dried up throat. She looked beautiful. Fragile and indomitable at the same time. Without registering the movement, he extended his hand to touch her uncovered hair, her complicated cut as much daring as fanciful. As his palm slid to her cheek she leaned into his touch and finally pulled him into a hug. 

“Vae,” he breathed, burying his face into her silky black hair, and froze the same instant, realising he had said it aloud. She wriggled out to look up at him, grinning, curious. 

“What did you say?”

“I thought up a name for you,” he cleared his throat, cracking a smile which would have been called bashful were it present on some other’s face. “Vae?” She retreated to sit on the high bench and pulled him near, their faces almost at the same level now.

“I love it,” she whispered against his lips, mixing her hot breath with his in a long-overdue kiss. Her hands crawled up his back as she pressed her body flush against his, encircling his hips with her legs. He hungered to explore her whole body, but instead he cupped her face, and ran his fingers through her hair, getting her to jolt in pleasure at his hovering caress of the pointy tips of her ears. 

Never ceasing to chase Vae’s skillful little tongue with his, Geralt pushed his hands under her pert bottom - which fit so perfectly in them - and lifted her up. She was light and lithe but he could feel the taut muscles in her shapely legs and strong arms. He turned around and sat on the sleeping bench himself, placing Dhu'vaerne in his lap. 

She immediately wriggled closer, locking her legs behind his back, her inner thigh grazing his already obvious erection. He closed his eyes and groaned. Having him ride that wave of pleasure, Vae moved on to kiss his neck, drawing a wet line with the tip of her tongue, and finishing it with a nip of her teeth. She made a quick work of his jerkin, pulling it over his shoulders, and his shirt, which followed suit. Dhu'vaerne’s frenetic action suddenly ceased at the sight of his bare torso. Her eyes shifted from his chest to his eyes, as she traced his scars with reverent fingers.

“One day,” she said, biting her lower lip, “you will tell me their stories. Everything you remember. But not today,” she added, her smile assuming a shade of something dangerous, her brilliant blue eyes darkening with desire. Her mouth was on his again, equally claiming and offering; and it was hungry and messy and perfect. He groaned with the pleasure coursing through his body when her fingers first traced, and then closed around his length constricted by clothing; but as she reached to undo his trousers, he stopped her. 

“Wait,” he rasped. It took next to all his will not to let her proceed. 

“Is something wrong? Are you hurt?” It made his skin prickle with excitement and his heart fill with warmth that Vae was worried instead of disappointed by the interruption. He shook his head, steadying his breath.

“Everything's… fine,” he stumbled over the jumble of words and thoughts and emotions clouding his mind. It was unusual. From what he remembered of himself, he never needed a pause when a gorgeous, half naked woman was by his side, eager to give himself to him. “I just want to look at you,” was the answer he uttered, surprising himself with the sincerity and the truth of it. 

“Do you mind?” With a cheeky little smile, she stepped back. He shook his head again, mesmerised by her lean body wrapped in the white linen of his shirt, the contrast of her translucent fair skin and raven-black hair, her eyes glinting in the low light of the stove fire. His shirt was large enough to cover her, leaving only her legs to be admired; even the deeply cut neckline that reached nearly below her sternum was not that revealing as Dhu'vaerne had loosely tied the strands over her chest. The fabric though, was thin. And he could half-see and half-guess the contours of her perfectly shaped breasts, her slim waist and rounded hips. She looked almost like a ghost, an impossible apparition, and yet she was so real. 

“No. It looks much better on you anyway.” His voice sounded strained and hoarse as he knelt beside her, favouring actions instead of words. He ran his hands from her very toes up along her legs, dragging his knuckles gently over pale skin, scattering goosebumps, making her shiver. He continued caressing upwards, palming her pert ass over the shirt, squeezing it to elicit a sweetest moan from her, which sent a jolt of desire through him. 

Her breasts reacted to his slightest touch, nipples hardening and poking through the linen. It was a wonder how much he enjoyed seeing Vae’s pleasure, as she threw her head back with tantalisingly parted lips, as he pressed the tip of his tongue to her nipple, wetting it through the fabric before taking it into his mouth, sucking, and rolling it with his tongue. 

A scent of her arousal hit him, and he finally pushed the hem of the shirt up, ever so slowly, to reveal a neat patch of hair as black as on her head, trimmed into a thin line as was customary with she-elves. Geralt held her by her legs, kissing her inner thighs and coming ever closer to where she so wantonly, shamelessly, intoxicatingly showed him she wanted him. 

He flicked his tongue in a circle over her clit, and kissed her folds, soaking wet with her want. 

“Gwynbleidd,” she pleaded shakily, huskily, “Geralt, please. I need you in me.” 

He could not resist any longer. His trousers were thrown off in the blink of an eye, and Vae’s deft fingers caught his shaft in a grip, circling her thumb over the sensitive head, as she kissed his chest and abdomen. He lifted her up and sat her on the edge of the bed in one swift motion. She tried to take the shirt off, but he stayed her hands, clasping them above her head, noting that she appeared to quite like that. 

He angled himself and drove his throbbing cock into the welcoming heat of her core. She gasped and bucked her hips to accept him, searching for the position that would allow him even deeper. And she found it. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, pulled out almost completely, teasing her entrance for a moment, and thrust. She moved in perfect synchrony with his rhythm, seeking and gifting pleasure as much as he did. 

The thrusts gained speed, and it all turned into a beautiful mess of screams, and sweat, and obscene smacking sounds of sex. He did not know himself any longer, utterly lost in the bliss as he fucked her, her cunt starting to clamp around him as Vae approached her peak. Geralt pinched her nipples, not gently anymore, and splayed his hand just above her mound, shifting the shirt and exposing an intricate tattoo of a leafed branch which snaked up her side and under her left breast. Geralt let out a slow grunt as his release washed over him just as he traced the lines of the tattoo. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead in the crook of Vae’s shoulder, catching his breath. Her chest was heaving as well, her arms wrapped around his back, slick with sweat. He nuzzled her neck and, without opening his eyes, moved to let her lips find his. 

“I am definitely not sorry,” she mumbled lazily into his ear, tickling, and making him roar with laughter which broke out like a river rushing through a burst dam. 

“I guess that could be viewed as a compliment,” he locked his eyes with hers, shimmering as if full of starlight. There was mischief and happiness in her face. 

As he pulled his still half rigid cock out of her and settled on the sleeping bench, she sat up with her back against the warm wall of the stove, her legs apart, and watched his seed slowly leak out of her. His breath caught in his throat at the sight. 

“You sure know how to grasp attention,” he smirked weakly. She gave him a lopsided grin in response and, with the grace of a wild feline, headed towards him on all fours. He leaned his back against the wall, fitting a wolf pelt between his skin and the stone, and pulled Vae to sit next to him, her back against his bare chest. As she nestled in, her - now it was - shirt bunched up to reveal the markings of their passion. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, encircling her into a tight but tender embrace. She disentangled to look at him questioningly. “I left bruises,” he gestured towards the blooming dark spots on the smooth, fair skin of her thighs. She turned around to face him with a big smile and shook her head.

“There’s nothing to apologise for. It was perfect.” She kissed him. And this time the kiss felt different, again. It made him feel like forgetting the world outside and researching that phenomenon in greater detail. Vae, however, apparently had other plans. 

“I told Zoltan you and I were going to do it,” she suddenly laughed. “I like him. He shaved my head.” Geralt only smirked. He realised he had been anxious about her meeting his other friends, the “old” ones, because at times he still felt like it was all some sort of a fake, a pretense, and those people did not really make up an important part of his life, for how could he have no memories of them? But he was glad Vae had got along with Zoltan. “And,” she added, “I might have promised one dwarf to get his bank back from humans,” she giggled mischievously. 

“Mhmm,” Geralt said. He was still too relaxed to get agitated. “Saving a dwarven bank it is.”

“Really?” She swirled around, genuine surprise on her face. “You would do that? You’d have to go to Vizima.”

“I’ll have to go there anyway,” he sighed, relenting to the talk of business. “I finally met the Hierophant. He gave me the name of a man, the head of the Salamandra operation here in the Swamp. And he’s also going to help me kill Roland Bleinheim. Before I do though, I’ll make him talk. To find out the location of their base of operations in Vizima. I need to get to their boss, and have a chat with him. Before sending him to his ancestors who probably lament his fucking existence and won’t be happy to see the bastard.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. The subject troubled him. “I am to salvage anything that they stole from Kaer Morhen, if anything remains, that is.” 

Vae watched him intently, and nodded after his pause stretched for a few long moments. 

“You can count on my help,” she promised seriously and decidedly. He was uncertain as to whether her readiness to help him still surprised him. But he nodded in appreciation and acceptance of it. He hoped it was enough for her to understand how much it really meant. If not, he would try to show her some other way. 

He reached for her, bringing her onto his lap and palming her bottom as she placed her hands on his chest for balance. 

“Can we not talk about this now?” His hands kneaded her behind and then moved upwards and to the front, cupping her breasts, satisfaction and hunger filling him in equal measure at the sight of her arching into his touch. She covered his hands with hers, still pressing onto her breasts. 

“We can. But we need to talk about something else first,” she breathed out with effort, not looking entirely convinced herself. 

“Mhm. We’ll talk,” he insisted, “later,” and proceeded to lift her shirt and leave a trail of kisses along her tattoo. 

“Bleidd. Please,” she moaned, but he refused to understand if she pleaded him to stop or to continue. Her fingers tangled in his hair, she arched once more as his lips reached just the spot under her breast, and then pushed him away, the message quite clear now. “Esse aefder.” He grinned: he liked her promise, and her use of Hen Llinge, and the shortened version of his elven name, too. 

“What did you want to speak about, Vae?” He leaned back, slowing his breathing in an attempt to quiet the intensity of his arousal. 

“I promised to tell you my story. I want you to know it before... anything else.” She sat cross-legged, pooling the shirt between her legs for a semblance of propriety. She seemed to have shrunk a little, her shoulders hunching slightly, as if against the cold.

“Are you afraid my opinion of you would change?” She thought of his question for a moment and finally shook her head.

“No. But I want you to know… me. And that’s not easy to talk about.” 

“I understand,” he nodded, a serious expression on his face, “and I want to know.” He stood to fetch the wolf pelts that had ended up on the floor, shook them out, put one over her legs and wrapped another around her shoulders. He crouched next to her, holding the coarse furs like a blanket closed at her chest, peering into her blue eyes with his yellow ones, hoping she could see his full support in there. 

“You’ll be you,” he finally opted for reassuring her with words, which were hard for him to pick, “no matter what you tell me. I’ll stick with you, because I already know enough to want that.” It did not come out quite eloquently, but saying it made him realise it was exactly how he felt. 

She leaned in with the speed of lightning, her hands framing his face, his mouth trapped in an ardent kiss. 

“Thank you,” she murmured against his lips, and rubbed her cheek against his stubble, “for not shaving,” she added with a cheeky little laugh, causing his own chest to erupt in an unaccustomed laughter - loud and unrestricted. “And for being so understanding,” she smiled. “Now that you are proving to be so wonderful, go toss more wood into the stove, won’t you? The fire’s nearly gone. I prepared some,” she gestured at the tidy heap of twigs as he stood up, making sure he displayed a lazy attitude in his every move. He still did not feel cold thanks to his Witcher mutations causing his blood to circulate so much faster than that of humans or elves, so his nudity did not bother him. Even more, he did not plan to get into clothes any time soon. It was a good enough pretext to grab Vae in a hug anyway, he figured, smirking. 

He put the wood into the hearth, where the fire had indeed nearly died out, and faced Dhu'vaerne. She raised a single mocking eyebrow waiting for him to be done with the simple chore, when he positioned a hand towards the wood, arranged his fingers to form the Igni Sign, and let out a splatter of fire without ever breaking eye contact. The expression on her face was worth it: a mixture of mocking admiration and reluctant excitement looked like a promise of future delights. 

“Good strategy,” she licked her lips almost predatorily, “distracting me like that.” He had assumed a pose which showed off the triangle of his broad shoulders and narrow hips, not at all by accident. He smirked, satisfied with the effect. “I’ll be happy for you to show me more of those poses later.” 

“That's a deal,” he replied, settling by her side, in a tone he would use to confirm a contract, but laughed in the end as she threw a thin blanket in his face. 

“You’ll have to cover yourself for now, too. I need to focus,” her smile lingered just as her eyes followed his movements, stealing another look at his naked body. He got an impression she quite liked his chest. 

She gave a deep sigh. 

“Where to begin?” 

“I already know you come from a tiny village of Grend on the border of Verden and Brokilon, which is missing from most maps.” He was a little proud of himself for remembering exactly what she had said about her birth place. “Why not start there?” 

“It used to be a lovely place,” she started, as they shared a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elder Speech:
> 
> Ceadmil - hello
> 
> on'hierd elaine - beautiful huntress
> 
> Bleidd - Wolf (short from of Gwynbleidd - White Wolf)
> 
> Esse aefder. - We shall later.
> 
> Hen Llinge - Elder Speech


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers, here's fair warning: this chapter is pretty dark as it contains bloody fighting, and mentions of tragic death and intended rape. Nothing is gratuitous, and I did try to sweeten the pill somewhat. :) But be ready for a chapter high on what the Witcher world is like. 
> 
> I do hope you'll enjoy it, and leave me a couple of words to say what you think. Thank you all for reading. <3

It was not easy for Geralt to concentrate on Vae’s words: her proximity, her warmth, and the heady tang of their joining wafting off her, were all an assault on his senses. Their mixed scents permeated the air, making the whole hut smell and feel like the two of them. Together. Despite his earlier - and probably typical - wariness, he genuinely enjoyed that feeling of oneness. That was why he made an effort, and focused. And followed her every word. And chiseled each of them into his memory. With so much of himself lost, he was glad to fill his own emptiness with learning the many things that had made Vae what she was. 

As she told it, Grend was nearly a fairytale village. It was not exceptionally rich or lucky, and living there was not particularly easier than anywhere else. And yet it was. Or had been. For back when Dhu’vaerne had been but a wisp of an elfling girl and well into her long elven childhood, the village had been a place where many races lived as one. There had been humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, and halflings in curiously equal numbers; and everyone, whatever their race, had just been a neighbour, and a friend. It had not mattered if they had longer ears, or stockier legs, or lived shorter. That last one had in fact been the biggest sadness of all. Elder races - their lifespan incomparably longer than that of humans - mourned their deceased friends, who always left too soon, before they could even notice it was time. And with time, the number of humans somewhat shrank. But still human families chose to stay there: both descendants, and those who came to live in a community of diversity and peace. Even mixed marriages were not frowned upon, even if not too common.

“Our next-door neighbours were a human family.” Vae stared into the middle distance, her eyes glazed over, a warm smile hovering on her curved lips, made puffy by his his hungry kisses. “We were quite close. For generations,” she sighed half-apologetically. “It was fascinating for us elven kids to observe the humans, how they matured so much faster, but still remained our friends.” She gave Geralt a smile which somehow looked - untypical for Vae - shy, and he squeezed her hand. 

“Ours was not a large family. Four of us: my big brother, our parents, and myself. Any other relatives were distant, and lived too far to mingle often. But we had each other, and the whole of Grend.” Her warm smile at the thought of those people made Geralt feel a little jealous, and he wondered what brought it on more - what she felt towards everyone she considered family, or that she had had them all in the first place. And then he thought of Kaer Morhen, of what he already remembered about his long life there. Vesemir and other boys, who had grown to become Witchers - or died trying - were his family too. If no one else, he still had brothers. 

He pressed Vae tighter to his chest, and stroked her hair, encouraging her to go on with a kiss on the back of her head. He already knew her parents were dead, and he suspected it was not a simple story. At least not the one so easy to tell. She turned to kiss his scarred shoulder before speaking again.

“Mother was a huntress. An exceptional one.” Vae had a brilliant smile on her face, her eyes shining with pride. Having experienced Dhu’vaerne’s own expertise at archery, he believed her words were not just a sign of filial love. “The best in the village, and probably in a much larger territory, but she did not much care to find out or prove that. And Father was a craftsman. The old-fashioned kind: neither a smith or an armourer, nor a cobbler, or a tanner. He did it all: weapons, tools, armour, footwear, you name it. But he always preferred working with wood and leather rather than steel. He used to say he felt more connected to the nature that way.” She stood up abruptly, leaving Geralt to wonder if he should wrap her into a hug or give her some space. But she soon returned holding her bow, holding it in a way he had not seen her do before. In battle, or at the risk of one, it always looked like the bow was an integral part of herself: she knew it so intimately, that handling it did not require the visual element. Now, she was looking at it with reverence, and he thought he even caught a tremble in her fingers as she caressed the curved wood. 

“I don't tell this to anyone,” she looked him straight in the eyes. “but I call my bow Ciali. After my parents. Ciaran and Thaleessa, simply Tali for Father and her close friends. This,” she paused as she handed the bow to him, and he took it, honestly honoured to hold it again now that he was learning more about the magnificent weapon, and more about _her_. 

“This was my father's last creation. Unfinished,” she shook her head, “Not even that. It was only half-done when he died, but I’d seen him make a bow so many times, I spent years, decades practicing on others to finish this one. In his memory. In the memory of them both, because it had always been that way: Father made bows that Mother put to good use. All of us did, in fact. Sometimes we even went hunting all together, the four of us. That was the best of all.” At that moment the similarity between them struck Geralt: both were no strangers to loss. But what gave him pause was wondering if a loss of someone so dearly remembered was even harder than the loss of something one forgot, or never had.

“It happened when I was still young: not a child any longer, but an adolescent only at the start of my road to adulthood. There had always been people who crossed our village looking for ways into Brokilon, seeking their resources and riches, imagining dryads would be an easy prey. Few had ever stayed long. Or returned from their scouting. We were so isolated, there was not even an inn to welcome the travellers. Those who came were rarely welcome anyway. But not as much as those six.” Dhu’vaerne’s face darkened at the memories, and her hands clenched into fists. Geralt hesitated, but finally opted for placing his hand next to hers, to be there if she chose to touch him. 

She ignored his hand, turning to him instead: a pained expression on her face, the blue of her eyes clouded like an overcast sky. 

“I didn't witness any of it. And for decades it's haunted me. What if I had been there, in the village green, when it happened? What if I could have saved them all?” She looked away, not expecting an answer. “Those I spoke to about it afterwards only said I’d likely have died too. This didn't really make it any better,” she mustered a weak smile. 

“Who were they?”

“Bandits. Scum. Murderers and rapists. Cowards. Humans.” Her answer sounded like a line of verse polished and honed through copious repetition. “They wanted a way into the Great Forest. They believed they’d find ample treasure and willing wenches the moment they stepped inside. In fact, they would not have been deterred if the wenches were not willing.” It was clear she was repeating what she herself had heard, likely from those who witnessed everything first-hand. 

“They could not find an entrance, and when they stumbled upon our village in their search, they decided to… ask the locals. They captured a boy - a human boy, barely 15 years of age - just outside the village when he was returning with the ducks he’d shot; and tortured him. It was a waste, such a waste. He could not tell them even had he wanted to, for he did not know. Even local humans almost never went deep inside Brokilon: the dryads allowed them to hunt in the outskirts. The men did not believe the boy didn't know, and dragged him into the village proper, into the very centre. It was the time of day when many were away - tending to the fields, hunting, gathering, or teaching the young ones in nearby clearings. The boy was our neighbour’s son, and his sister heard his cries. She darted outside, without thinking, only to attract attention to herself. Only to be pounced upon and held ready, as one of the bastards started untying his breeches.” He noticed Vae clench her teeth as her jaws worked, and Geralt could so clearly imagine how many different ways of killing that scum were rushing through his beautiful elf’s head. Finally, she swallowed, and continued, staring at the wall. 

“My mother heard the cries. She was quick to fire a few well-placed arrows. The intended rapist quickly lost his ability to rape. The others acquired arm wounds which made wielding weapons more difficult, or were pinned in place by an arrow through the foot. One was shot in his thigh and collapsed. The one holding the boy was swift though. He managed to evade, and tried to cover his much larger body with the boy’s, pressing a dagger to his neck.” Silence. 

“Mother didn't want to risk hurting the boy. She spoke up, telling them to get out with their lives. And she would have spared them. Some of them, at least. But the dagger slid from the boy’s throat to his ribs. He did not get a warning, only a quick death. Mother didn't know there was another brigand who’d apparently fallen behind. His attack, paired with a crossbow bolt from the one who lay injured on the ground, cost her her life. The girl, the neighbours’ daughter, shrieked, and was heard. By a group of returning hunters - my father and brother among them, by the dwarves who were working in their small smithy, by the halfling children I was walking back into the village after having cared for them the whole day. We all heard it, and I saw it, too. I shoved the kids into the first house and yelled to the oldest one to lock the door and hide with the little ones, away from the windows. I heard the rage in my brother's scream as they ran into the green. I heard my father's sobbing as he knelt by my mother's dead body - the only time I’d ever heard it. I heard nothing from myself - no words, no crying, no heartbeat, no breathing. I just stood there, frozen. Watching as my brother slashed, roaring, with his sword, covering the green, and himself, in blood. I felt nothing as the neighbours’ girl ran towards me, stumbling on sleek grass, and clasped me, and wailed. I woke up when my father joined my brother in his killing spree. When good men turned to hatred, to vengeance, to death. They left not one of the intruders alive. Father got injured. And died soon after. He only lived enough to ask to bury him with his Tali. And to tell us they loved us - always, more than anything. And to ask my brother and me for forgiveness. For leaving us.” 

Geralt was leading a losing battle in his head: there was no way he could decide if it was better to tell Vae that he had her, or that she had him. He honestly could not fathom which could bring her comfort at that moment, and, in the moment of indecision, he brought her close, and wrapped his arms around her, tucking the wolf hide around her to form a protective bubble. She did not resist. 

“I won't leave you,” he said foolishly, knowing well enough it was not the promise he could realistically keep, and he was certain she knew it too, but at that moment he chose to believe it. And hoped she would to. For that moment. She did not reply. The sniffles he expected did not come either. She lifted her eyes at him, dry, but shimmering bright in the firelight, as if there were tears there but on the other side, the one she hid from most. But not from him. 

“We buried them the next day. Our parents, and the neighbours’ boy. Not in the same spot. My brother raged. It was his way to grieve. He couldn't do it any other way. I tried… he did not listen. It was all humans’ fault to him. Our parents had been murdered by humans. And he hated them. Hated with such force and passion it scared me. The fact that some of his closest friends had been humans made it all the more terrifying. He wanted nothing to do with them. To him, the fact that our mother had died protecting a human girl was the proof that he was right in his hatred, not that he was wrong, and that Mother would never want him to be like that. It was that poor neighbours' girl’s fault for him, too. 

Two days after the funeral he left. He did say goodbye, I give him that. He was honest. We spoke all night. Comparing our pains. His head had cooled enough for him to not blame the neighbours for the death of our parents. But he admitted he could not bear to live next to them anymore, share food with them, and call them friends. He had to leave. I think even then he knew he was leaving because he didn't want that newborn hatred to recede, and he knew that in the outside world he would find plentiful fuel for it. And I could understand that. I didn't share his feelings, but I could understand. I just couldn't understand how he was able to leave me. Or, again, I could, but it hurt too much back then. He knew I could not follow him: I was not just too young, but not ready. I needed a family, a home, and time. Time was aplenty, and the rest was given to me by those human neighbours who had lost their son. I couldn't stay in our house at first, and they took me in. I stayed with them for… a very long time in human terms. Greeting and burying generations of their family. Of my family. Until I couldn't do that anymore. And decided I was ready to find my brother. I know he joined the Scoia’tael early on, and I’ve been collecting information about him for several years now.” She looked at him intently and seriously, without drama, fear, or apology.

“I want to know more about the man he has become before I meet him.” 

“I understand,” Geralt nodded, “and you can count on my help in finding him.” Her smile looked sudden and surprised, as if she did not expect it herself. 

“The Wolf who makes so many promises,” she embraced him, settling in his lap, locking her arms around his neck. Geralt had an unpleasant feeling that, despite her not saying that, there was “which he cannot keep” at the end of that sentence. But her breath tickled his neck, and her skin on his felt smooth and cool, and he wanted to warm it, to make her alive and happy again, to set her ablaze with desire again, to make her his. Always his. So his arms pulled her away just a little, slowly, gently, holding her back as she arched it; he nuzzled at her shaved temple, his lips kissed her exposed ear, carefully. 

“I’m sorry I didn't have a chance to meet your mother, Vae, but I think you two are very much alike.” She clearly did not expect him to say that: judging by her troubled breathing, his actions had been somewhat successful in shifting her attention elsewhere. 

“Oh?” she murmured, eyes heavy-lidded.

“Mhm,” he nodded, “both exceptional archers,” he pulled the neckline of her shirt to the side and placed a kiss on her bare shoulder. “Both kind, selfless, and always ready to help,” he slid his fingers under the hem of the shirt, running them up, exposing her marble skin, and touching his lips to her hip bone. She shuddered with pleasure. “Both remarkably beautiful,” he pulled the shirt off over her head, marvelling at all of her, dragging his tongue up from her mound to her neck, teasingly bypassing her most sensitive spots. Her breath hitched as she arched even more.

“I never said Mother was beautiful,” she contradicted playfully, between heavy pants of breath. 

“She must have been,” his voice was a low rumble, thick with want. “Look at you.” As he breathed his words onto her skin, his bite on her jaw was both a reproach and a marking. She would be his. She was. He swallowed her scream of pleasure with a kiss. 

 

***

Dhu’vaerne awoke as a heavy arm lashed across her stomach, expelling air from her lungs. She bent up into the sitting position, gasping for breath. Geralt must have been having a nightmare: the features of his stern but handsome face were twisted with rage, with pain. She caught her breath and swallowed. She was familiar with nightmares, quite intimately at that. But hers have not plagued her in quite a while now. 

She grabbed Geralt’s arm, stilling him, her other hand splayed on his chest.

“Gwynbleidd,” she spoke softly, “Geralt, wake up.” All of a sudden he thrashed around and jolted upright, gripping her hand painfully. “You're all right. It was a bad dream,” she urged, cringing with pain. He stared at her with a blank look, his eyes shifting. He finally saw he was hurting her and immediately released his hold. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. He sounded parched. And beaten.

“It's fine, I’m fine. And you are fine,” she comforted, massaging her wrist discreetly, thinking that he was not fine, not at all. He embraced her, as if finally back to his normal self.

“The massacre,” he said in a voice pained, tired, and surprised at the same time. Dhu’vaerne cringed with guilt: her story must have prompted his nightmare. 

“I’m sorry,” she started, but he interrupted her, his yellow eyes glowing impossibly in the near complete darkness, staring straight into hers. 

“I remembered the massacre. Right before I died.” And, before she could ask a single question, he slumped back onto the bed - a bit too narrow for both of them - pulling her with him, and was asleep. Dhu’vaerne lay awake for a long time after, but Geralt’s sleep was calm and undisturbed. 

 

*** 

He woke up rested, ready for the coming battle with the Salamandra, if only a bit annoyed he could not spend the whole day in bed with Vae. But the sooner they got rid of the bandits, he figured, the sooner they would be able to go back to bed, so he was optimistic rather than upset. 

“How are you?” Dhu’vaerne’s worried face accompanying the question confused him. 

“Hmm, good? Very good? Will be even better if I…” he reached to kiss her neck, grazing her skin gently with his teeth. She made a most delicious sound of contentment - something between a purr and a hiss of a wild feline. But she disentangled from him much too soon, sooner than he wanted. She sighed deeply and looked him in the eyes, visibly searching his face for something. Was she worried about their relationship? Did she want to set rules and make plans and… ?

“Do you remember anything special about last night?” she interrupted, mixing slight unease into his confusion. 

“Everything about last night was special,” he said, and he was honest. She traced the most prominent scar on his face, her fingertips fluttering above and below his eye. She sighed again and smiled, but the smile seemed sad. “Is anything wrong?” He caught her hand, turned it palm up in his, and noticed the fresh bruises. “Was this… did I do this?” 

“It's not a problem. You just had a restless sleep,” her smile became more relaxed, but he tensed, worrying he hurt her during his sleep and did not even remember it. His useless memory be cursed twice over. He kissed her palm and buried his face into it, pressing his stubbled cheek to her tender skin.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don't worry, Gwynbleidd. It seemed like you just didn't want to let me go, so one could say I’m a bit flattered,” she grinned playfully, kissing his bare chest under the wolf-head medallion he had already put back on. It was a lame excuse, and he grunted with frustration at himself, but as her lips touched his skin, he chose to simply enjoy, and to appreciate how nice she was to him. 

The rest of the morning though was not meant for pleasure: they had much work to do. Geralt gave Vae a full account of his agreement with the Hierophant. They were to join him three hours after midday, when the arranged meeting between the druid and the local Salamandra leader would take place and - if everything went according to plan - turn into an ambush. Dhu’vaerne was to fight alongside Geralt, that was not even a matter open for discussion, but she was not entirely convinced they did not need any support. 

“Well,” Geralt drawled, “I thought I’d keep it as a surprise till we get there, but, if you must know, if you really insist, then I guess I have no choice but to tell you,” he teased, leaning on the door frame, his arms crossed. 

“By now I'm not sure I want to know,” Vae rolled her eyes. 

“Good. Then I’ll tell you,” he grinned, enjoying the stupid little game more than he probably should. “The Hierophant is bringing his friend along. Who just happens to be a wyvern,” he divulged smugly. The news certainly piqued her interest. 

“Ohhh. Can he control the beast that much? That’s quite extraordinary. Do you know what to expect? Have you ever fought alongside a wyvern?”

“Only against them,” he shook his head. “From that experience I can tell they’re mighty opponents. Will be good to have one on our side. If it stays on our side.”

“I’m sure the Hierophant knows what he's doing,” Dhu’vaerne smiled, visibly excited about the upcoming singular experience. 

The following few hours were a weird new experience for Geralt. They spent them in preparation for battle - nothing new there. It felt similar to how it had been with his brother Withers in Kaer Morhen: in the focus, the practicality and efficiency of brewing potions, sharpening and oiling weapons. But this time, as each was busy with their own task - Dhu’vaerne finishing a batch of her famous bombs, and Geralt mixing up a powerful elixir - there was an indescribably more pleasant element to it all that could never be present in the Witcher fortress. As he would definitely not want to steal a kiss from Eskel or grab Lambert’s ass as they handed each other the reagents. No, definitely, never. 

 

***

They arrived early. Having checked the area and found no surprises, they were content to wait as planned, settling in a secluded spot among the - unbelievably for the area - dry bushes, and sharing an apple. Soon, their assault team became complete, with the arrival of the druid - a man who moved with incredible agility for his apparent old age - and the tame wyvern. The Hierophant explained they had to ‘become acquainted’ with his friend for the beast to get used to their scents enough not to attack them in battle. The man handed each a thin piece of stringy dried meat and instructed them on the particulars of feeding a wyvern. 

It went well. Dhu’vaerne seemed to have become fast friends with the beast, eventually even patting him right between the dangerous-looking horns on his neck, to the Hierophant’s appreciative smiling and nodding, and Geralt’s unblinking eyes and hands itching for the hilt of a sword in case the creature tried anything. But all went well. If Dhu’vaerne crooning to the beast and promising to bring him a few choice fat rats was to be considered a positive development. Geralt was not exactly less enthusiastic about befriending a wyvern, he was rather a bit cautious on the account of being a Witcher. One never knew if the creature could sense the deaths of his fellows about him. He simply decided not to push his luck. 

Having promptly confirmed the plan for the upcoming encounter, Geralt and Vae withdrew out of sight, leaving the Hierophant to stand calmly by a large tree, alone, as his friend wyvern waddled about the clearing nearby. 

The Salamandra, they soon discovered, had at least one virtue - the outlaws were uncommonly punctual. Mere minutes after the agreed time, they spotted a man walking openly down a path towards the appointed tree. The Hierophant leaned on the tree, his left hand outstretched to hold onto the trunk - giving his allies the confirmation this was indeed the man they had been waiting for. Roland Bleinheim. Geralt gritted his teeth as he studied his enemy from a distance. The man was tall, and his whole look and posture gave off confidence, boldness even: his shaved head, his leathers impractically cut to reveal his bare shoulders, a large salamander tattoo covering one of them. _Not for long,_ Geralt thought, sensing a feral scowl appearing on his own face.

They knew Bleinheim could not possibly have come alone, so they kept their eyes peeled. When Vae silently touched his arm and pointed towards the trees where a few men were clearly gathering, Geralt cast her a quick look, nodded, and headed out towards the druid and the bandit, freeing his steel on the go. 

Bleinheim was quick, he had to give him that. He became aware of the Witcher’s approach fast enough to have the serrated blades of his two illegal swords ready in his hands, poised at the Hierophant. But the threat he generated did not pay off: at the druid’s call, both a spear of lightning, and a slash of the wyvern’s sharp claws fell upon the bandits’ leader. The Witcher’s sword was there the very next moment. 

As Geralt swirled, evading both toothed blades at the expense of only a bad scratch, using the momentum to bring his own weight into the blow, he noticed with his peripheral vision that besides several humans, a few other creatures were approaching them. He grunted as he hacked at Bleinheim’s left shoulder, scraping the bone, slicing the tattooed lizard in half. 

Most men running to help their boss were now in the open, and had no way to hide from the steady flow of arrows, which found unprotected arms and necks with impressive accuracy. Vae further hindered their progress by hurling bombs. The curious things spun and hissed, and Geralt clearly heard one bandit laugh at the perceived failure, when three arrows hit true, each causing a bomb to explode, spurting flames, taking men down in a bloody, screaming agony. 

Vae - with the assistance of the Hierophant’s lightning - more than halved the group, but at least three survivors were now about to join their efforts on Geralt. Good. It was better than them going after her. He shrugged off two simultaneous attacks with a pirouette, and slashed at Bleinheim again, who, despite bleeding heavily from his left arm, still had enough strength to decently wield a sword with his right. 

There was a flurry of movement behind him, and he heard one of his attackers scream before he died, two sharp dagger tips protruding from his chest. Vae had joined the melee, damn her. Blades whooshing around him as he ducked, Geralt swore. He needed assistance, but she was risking too much. 

“Bleidd!” she called, as if in answer to his worries, “Look left!” Fuck. How the hell had the Salamandra manage to bring beasts with them? Geralt saw two huge insectoids making quick way towards him, clicking their mandibles. Kikimore warriors. Monsters. They were his job, but he could not leave Vae fighting four men. At the moment of his indecision, he was reminded of two things, even three: it was unforgivable to lose focus in battle, Vae looked quite at home in a fight, and she was not fighting alone. When a serrated sword touched the flesh of his thigh, the Witcher growled with fury instead of wincing in pain, and as he felt a cooling effect of healing magic, he found Vae with his eyes, bringing his sword down on his opponents without giving them any more openings. 

“Stay near the Hierophant!” he yelled to her, “he can heal you!” and, with a parting slash that sent one of the bandits to the ground, he set off running. He had to take care of the kikimores before they overwhelmed Vae and the druid, had to draw their attention. Fighting these insect-like monsters was simple, but taxing: they hated fire, but it took a lot of damage to break down their hard shells. 

He ran straight between the two, rolled forward, and came back up with his hand extended, spraying fire with Igni. It made the creatures momentarily step back, which was enough for Geralt to start his dancing routine around them. Between the pirouettes, the cuts, and the parries he quickly downed two potions one after the other: to prompt his altered genes to restore his health more quickly and generate more stamina. His vision blurred temporarily as his mutated body reacted to the reagents, but he kept going at the kikimores with his silver, closing his eyes completely and relying on hearing and smell alone. He opened them again when he heard a screech of a wyvern - who was now fighting alongside him. 

It all felt surreal: a Witcher and a beast working in tandem, killing other beasts together. The wyvern’s powerful blows from above dealt great damage, and gave Geralt just enough opportunity to land a devastating blow to the kikimore’s belly. His flying companion quickly set to finish it off. The other one was near death too: it would have only taken a few seconds of a continuous stream of fire released from his palm to kill it, but he was afraid to harm the wyvern in the process too. So he kept thrusting his sword at it, forfeiting the use of Witcher Signs. 

The fight was taking its toll on Geralt, and a final lash of the now dying kikimore warrior’s claw resulted in piercing pain blooming in his right arm, causing the whole limb to pulse with it. He could hardly hold his sword when the kikimore heaved its last breath. He fell to his knees, fumbling to grab a vial, pulling the cork out with his teeth and spitting it out before gulping another concoction. He needed to rejoin the fight with humans. He needed to get to Bleinheim. The potion numbed the pain and allowed his limbs to work, but not properly. Trying to stand up had him swaying from side to side, as if drunk, his vision swimming: it had been one potion too many. He was not going to let it stop him from getting back to Vae though. From making sure she was safe. 

She was, it seemed. He could hear her voice first - not words but just the sound of it - as he approached unsteadily, and then feel her arms reach out for him, grab on to him, and push him to sit down. His blurred vision denied him a chance to see her, but he made an effort and focused on listening, pushing past the rushing noise of his overly toxic blood in his ears. 

“...help him?” Her voice worried. Her hands gentle on his cheeks. An echo. 

“... treat his wounds, not the effect of Witcher elixirs on his mutated…” A course of magic through his body. A shudder.

“... one, Gwynbleidd?” Her hands rough on his shoulders. A squeeze. A shake. “Which one?!” 

“White Honey,” he slurred, finally aware of what she was asking of him. He would have to admit - when he was back to his senses - it had been a very good idea of hers to make him teach her what a couple of his Witcher potions looked like and what they served for, in case he was incapacitated during the fight. He would thank her when he was back to himself. Which would be soon now - he heard the pop of the stopper pulled out, felt the glass pressed to his parched lips as his head was tilted back, and a liquid searing through his throat. 

The first thing he saw when his mind and his vision cleared - his blood purged of the toxins - were her incredibly luminous blue eyes, their radiance not obscured by the heavy veil of long black lashes. She was safe. She sighed heavily at the sight of his recovery. He groaned. Even all the druid’s healing did not make him feel exactly great. 

“Bleinheim is nearly dead,” Vae said quickly, shifting his attention from reaching his arm out to stroke her cheek. He stood up with another groan and followed Vae to where the leader of the Salamandra Swamp opeation lay in a puddle of his own blood, his body maimed, his chest barely rising with shallow breaths. Geralt bent down to rip off the scarlet scarf wrapped around the man’s face, hiding it. 

“Where is your base in Vizima? Who is your boss?” Honestly, Geralt did not believe he would get anything from him at all. Bleinheim knew he would die soon, and there was nothing the Witcher could do to make it better or worse for him to buy information. But he had to try. The dying man’s face twitched with a scowl that bared his teeth, and his body shook with the coughs as he tried to laugh.

“Me brother… will see you out, mutant,” he rasped and tried to spit at Geralt, but failed. So there was more of this filthy brood. Of course there was. The Witcher watched, silent. “He and his sewer rats,” the man cackled, spewing blood from his mouth before the last of air hissed from his lifeless lungs. 

Geralt crouched, and rubbed his face with his hands. There was always more of them, only more. He sighed and went to wearily pat the corpse, searching for anything of use. To his astonishment, Bleinheim carried papers with him: a Royal Letter of Safe Conduct, and an encrypted message. At least he had something to work with. And he was quite certain his next stop should be in Vizima Sewers, where another Bleinheim apparently reigned. He shut his eyes for a moment, knackered. 

“You’ve done us a great service, Gwynbleidd,” he heard the Hierophant say gently behind him, “I thank you in the name of the Druid Circle, and all the inhabitants of the Swamps.”

“Wouldn’t have done it without you,” he turned to shake the old man’s firm hand. “And thank you for mending me.” The druid only nodded, smiling benevolently. 

“I bid you farewell, but both of you are ever welcome in the Druids’ Grove.” 

“Vizima next, then?” Vae stood by his side. Now that he finally took a good look at her, he noticed the blood and gore smeared on her clothes. She looked tired, but she was fine. He would have to thank the Hierophant again. He grabbed her and pulled her into a not-so-gentle hug.

“Mhm.” He closed his eyes at the contact with her, her arms immediately circling around his back, her cheek pressed to his chest. Her hair, he noticed, still smelt nice, the sweetness of her famous oil mixing with the saltiness of her sweat, and the metallic scent of blood. 

“When are we leaving? We’ll need to make some arrangements. Talk to Yaevinn, and ...” her voice sounded sweet when it was muffled. But he did not want to hear her speak about Yaevinn. 

“Shut up,” he said with all gentleness, and kissed the back of her head. “First, we need a couple of days for ourselves.”


End file.
